music

'Wind in the Wires:' A love story by Beth Winegarner

An eletrical pylon with a blue and yellow sky behind it

Photo by Ernest Brillo on Unsplash.

I remember clearly the night I started falling in love with D. 

It was a December night, a few days before Christmas, at the end of 1994. I was back from my first semester at U.C. Berkeley, and he was hosting his annual holiday party for the teens and young adults who used local BBSes — a dial-up precursor to the early Internet. 

Someone had brought multiple reels of magnetic tape, the type used for recording sounds before the invention of smaller cassette tapes. And someone (possibly the same person, but I’m not sure) had strung the tape between the streetlight poles along the cul-de-sac where D. lived, and for quite a ways down the street, somewhat like a festive holiday garland, but made of brown plastic. 

D. was stationed by the front door, so that every time someone came in, he could play an audio recording of another friend saying the name of our local BBS network in a comically sexual voice. It was cued up on his computer and he would play it over and over again throughout the night. 

At some point I walked by him, and was struck by how attractive he was. We’d been friends for a few years already, and I’d been in a couple of romantic relationships with others in our community. But on this night, for some reason, I was drawn to him in a way that hit me like a sandbag to the gut. 

“Oh, shit,” I said to myself. 

I went out the front door and started walking.

It was a breezy night, and the wind blew through the garlands of electrical tape, making the most unearthly noise. It whispered and rattled and stuttered overhead as I took long strides, as if I could outrun this new feeling. The suburban winter darkness was cold and quiet, aside from the song of the tape echoing along the streets. Somehow, it was the perfect soundtrack for my mood. 

This wasn’t even the first time I’d fallen in love with someone in that house. I’d met someone who felt like a soul twin at the prior year’s holiday party, and I was still nursing the grief from losing him. And as I walked through the neighborhood streets, I passed the weedy lot where I’d hidden, trembling, from another ex who’d chased me through a nearby parking lot, screaming at me to grow up. I was on a break from romance; I couldn’t bear to have my heart shattered again. Besides that, I’d been in relationships almost nonstop since mid-1989, and I wanted to know what it was like to be on my own as a young adult. 

Eventually, I came back to the house. Although I don’t remember the rest of that night, I do recall that, soon after, D. and I started writing each other long, rambling emails, getting to know each other as I held strong to my self-imposed moratorium on dating. But by June 1995, we were together. And we’re still together, almost 30 years later. 


Patrick Wolf, photo by Ingrid Z, courtesy Patrick Wolf’s Flickr page.

I discovered Patrick Wolf’s music in 2007 almost by accident. A former music-publication editor invited me to a new social-media platform where folks mostly talked about and shared new music they were into, and someone posted a video of Wolf playing a new song, “Bluebells,” on a grand piano in his apartment. “Lucy, remember, the smell of that fall: The fires, the fungus and the rotting leaves.” The beautiful, melancholy song hooked me immediately, but the album it was from, “The Magic Position,” wasn’t out quite yet, so I bought the previous one instead. 

It was called “Wind in the Wires,” and the title alone drew me in, reminding me both of wild landscapes and of that night under the shuddering electrical tape. I loved the album’s dark, brooding mood right away, and began listening to it several times a week as I took long walks through the wooded canyon near my house. 

In Wolf I felt like I’d found a kindred spirit, someone who loved being alone in nature (I only found out recently that, as a city boy, he found such untamed spaces terrifying, until relatively recently), someone whose emotions were so huge that it took an album’s worth of melancholy lyrics and minor-key instrumentation to express them. 

Even though I was hiking through parks in San Francisco, when I listened to “Wind in the Wires” it felt as though I was walking alongside Wolf, who returned again and again to the vistas of Southwest England, and Cornwall specifically, on “Wind in the Wires.” I’d visited Somerset and Cornwall, in 1995 and 1999, and had glimpsed seaside terrain similar to places he described in his songs. 

In “Teignmouth,” referring to the spot where the Teign River in Devon empties into the English channel, he sings: 

On the night train
From the city to the south
I saw spirits
Crawl across the river mouth

There’s also a deep sense of wanderlust on this album, a longing to explore, and one I share: 

There's a house by the rails that I know
In a valley on its own
With trains and bones and birds in the yard where the wild nettles grow

x

A blue map of Cornwall
Up on a bedroom wall
Drawing a line
I'll be following soon

x

While I'm asleep
My spirit crawls out
Of this belly button
And goes down to the sea

To gather the wind
The wires and the shore
To wander the hills
Like a day gone before

x

I'm leaving London for Lands End
With a green tent and a violin

The title track of “Wind in the Wires” was inspired by a couple of things: One, the title of a film that Wolf saw in a local newspaper, and two, the sound of the wind blowing through the power lines near the Hayle Towans, also in Cornwall. He sings: 

Wind in the wires
It's the sigh of wild electricity
I'm on the edge of a cliff
Surpassing comfort and security

Again, when I heard those words — for the first time, and every time after — I thought of D. and that December night when I took my turbulent feelings for a walk along the suburban streets, the wind in the electrical tape shuddering overhead. Even though Wolf’s song is quite different, describing a feeling of anger and rootlessness, it still felt like he’d seen into my heart and made something kindred with it. 

This wild electricity
Made static by industry
Like a bird in an aviary
Singing to the sky
Just singing to be free

“Wind in the Wires” turns 20 in February 2025, and I feel lucky to have known and loved it for most of those two decades. A newly remastered version is coming out early next year. Keep an eye out for it and, in the meantime, I hope you give the original a spin. 

Origin story: Trina Robbins (1938-2024) by Beth Winegarner

Yesterday, Trina Robbins, the legendary comic artist, graphic novelist and historian — who was also one of my mentors and role models — died. You can read more about her incredible life in this New York Times obituary; the gift link will expire May 11, 2024. 

I first learned about Trina in my early teens, when Eclipse Comics moved into the house across the street from ours in Forestville, California. I think there must’ve been an article in the local paper, saying that Trina was launching a new comic, California Girls, with Eclipse, and was seeking fashion designs from readers, especially young readers. 

At the time, I was drawing a comic of my own (inspired by my classmate, Mark; you can see some of his characters here). It was about a rock band called Zoo, where all of the members were different animals. I sent Trina some sketches featuring two Zoo members modeling different outfits. Much to my surprise and excitement, she included one of my designs in issue 5, and also featured me as “designer of the month.” 

Click on the photos above to see them larger.

It was my first time being published, and I still remember the thrill of it clearly. Although I was already writing constantly at the time, this was a milestone that gave me the confidence to keep going. In future years, I joined my high school’s newspaper staff, co-founded a newsletter with our environmental club, and published the school’s literary magazine my senior year. I’ve been a writer and journalist ever since. 

Pages from California Girls #5, featuring the prairie dress I designed.

Also, I love that the design Trina chose was my “prairie dress.” If you’ve been following my work in recent years, you know I’ve never stopped dreaming of the perfect prairie dress. (See my video here.)

A lot changes in a year or two in a teenager’s life. Just before I turned 16, I discovered Jim Morrison and became obsessed. I bought a copy of “No One Here Gets Out Alive,” the biography of Jim’s life by Jerry Hopkins and Danny Sugerman, and inhaled it. Among its pages I found a familiar name: Trina Robbins. She and Jim apparently had a brief friendship and sexual relationship. I wrote to her, asking if she was the Trina Robbins in the book. She wrote back and said yes. 

At the time they met, Trina was a fashion designer whose creations caught the eye of musicians like Mama Cass, David Crosby and Donovan. She also opened a clothing boutique, called Broccoli, in New York. According to the biography, Jim started hanging around the shop and he and Trina got to know each other. I was incredibly jealous, but did my best to be respectful. I asked Trina whether she had ever thought about writing about her experiences with him. She said she had, but she didn’t want to feel like she was monetizing the relationship like others were doing. I remember having so much respect for that stance, even though here was someone who had all these juicy details I wanted to know about. 

In early college, I turned the tables by profiling Trina in the Santa Rosa Junior College newspaper, The Oak Leaf, giving her a two-page spread with many of her drawings. She’d just released her book A Century of Women Cartoonists. It was then that I began to learn more about her life as a pioneering woman artist in the male-dominated comics world of the 1960s and 1970s, and the fact that, in 1985, she became the first woman ever to draw Wonder Woman

Once social media rolled around, I reconnected with Trina, especially on Facebook and Instagram. I realized we both lived in San Francisco, and we met up one time for lunch at Crepevine on Church Street; it turned out she lived about a block away, in a house she’d bought for next to nothing in the 1970s. It was incredible to finally meet and talk with this woman who’d been such a huge part of my teen life. Now, I imagine all the other people she inspired and mentored, and I’m in awe. 

I’ve only just discovered that, in 2017, Trina did release a memoir of her life, which includes at least some of her stories about Jim Morrison. I’ve just ordered it, and I can’t wait for it to arrive. 

Rest in power, Trina. You gave us all so much. 

Recent things I can't stop talking about by Beth Winegarner

“Interview with the Vampire”

Last weekend, I finished season 1 of the new “Interview with the Vampire” series on AMC+ (I know it hasn’t aired on cable yet, so I’ll try to avoid spoilers), and it has no right being as good as it is. I read Anne Rice’s first two vampire novels when I was in my teens, and they mattered a lot to me (they still do). And, much as I love director Neil Jordan, the 1994 film adaptation disappointed me, largely because of the casting; Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt and Antonio Banderas felt hideously wrong for their roles. 

This time, I couldn’t be happier with the casting. And, although the writers made substantial changes to the setting (Jazz Age New Orleans vs. 18th century), the racial dynamics of the main characters (both Louis and Claudia are Black), and the relationship between Louis and Lestat (they are romantic partners, an idea hinted at in the text but never openly depicted before), all of those changes are for the better. It’s beautiful, smart and sexy. 

I also just reread probably my favorite Anne Rice novel, “The Witching Hour,” to prepare for AMC’s adaptation, which launches in January. I’m anxious about this one; the trailer makes it look substantially different from the book, and they somehow haven’t cast anyone for a main character, Michael Curry. And I wish they’d cast Mackenzie Davis as Rowan. And for Michael? Maybe Henry Cavill or Ian Somerhalder (the latter of whom is from Louisiana). 


“Blood Upon the Snow”

It’s been almost four years since Hozier released his last album, “Wasteland, Baby.” He’s got another one cooking, but he surprised us this week by unveiling “Blood Upon the Snow,” a collab with composer Bear McCreary for the new “God of War: Ragnarok” game. Regular readers know that I fell hard for Hozier’s music last year. I discovered McCreary through his soundtrack for the Amazon “Rings of Power” series; his music is a key component, a character in its own right. And this new song brings us the best of both of them.

Hozier fans often joke that he’s some kind of fae creature, calling him Forest King or Forest Daddy. In part, this is because of how deeply his lyrics feel rooted in nature and the otherworld. As the name suggests, “Blood Upon the Snow” falls right in line with those ideas. It’s sung from the perspective of someone who has spent a lifetime surviving in nature, beautiful but harsh. There are moments where it sounds like a mournful ghazal, but the music also evokes Celtic folk and Nordic elements, including what I believe is McCreary playing a hurdy gurdy. There’s also what feels like a Russian men’s chorus. It’s sublime.

Hozier also recently released “Swan Upon Leda,” a song about women’s bodily autonomy through the ages. It’s the first taste of his next album, “Unreal Unearth,” release date yet unknown. In one verse he describes a grandmother smuggling birth control pills across the Northern Irish border, which felt of a piece with some of my other recent cultural touchstones: the final season of “Derry Girls,” and “Thin Places,” by Kerri ní Dochartaigh, about how she survived the trauma of growing up in Derry during the Troubles. Many of my ancestors came from Ireland, including Northern Ireland, in and around Derry, and I’m drawn to art that connects me to those places.


“Enter the Day”

Patrick Wolf, one of my longtime favorite musicians, dear to my heart, is finally unearthing new music for the first time in more than a decade. Today he released “Enter the Day,” a hopeful ballad about emerging from difficult times to land in the places we belong. It touches on the death of his mother as well as the landscapes of eastern Britain, along the North Sea, where he now lives. 

As with Hozier, nature is a constant companion in Wolf’s work, particularly the geography of Cornwall and other coastal climes. So much so that I could hear his music in my head when I read, this year, Katharine May’s “The Electricity of Every Living Thing.” In it, she comes to terms with her autistic mind while walking the 630-mile South West Coast Path through Devon and Cornwall. I recommended the book to Wolf a few months ago; I have been a member of his Patreon this year, where he has answered listener questions, reminisced on old photos and songs, and played monthly live concerts from his home by the sea. He sang a capella version of “Enter the Day” for us recently, and one line stuck with me more than any other: “Deep in your disorder is a sleeping symmetry.” Gorgeous. 

Alcest live at Hellfest 

I love Alcest, the French black metal/shoegaze band that sings about otherworldly encounters. I especially love seeing them live, but they haven’t come through San Francisco in several years, and live music hasn’t felt safe in Covid times anyway. They just released their live set from this year’s Hellfest, performed in June in Clisson. Seeing them again is emotional, cathartic, and transcendent. 

Lacuna Coil, “Comalies XX”

Italian metal band Lacuna Coil recently re-recorded their landmark album “Comalies.” The original is a forever classic, but the new version is fresh and alive. I love the harder riffs, and the fact that Andrea Ferro is now leaning all the way into harsh vocals. As much as I love the 2002 album, I also associate it with someone who turned out to be horribly toxic. I’m grateful for this chance to love it all over again.

'Places only hold us; they only let us in.' by Beth Winegarner

Inch Island, Donegal, Ireland, by K. Mitch Hodge, via Unsplash

I’ve just finished reading Kerri ní Dochartaigh’s memoir “Thin Places” and I can’t stop thinking about how she describes being “held” by certain places in nature. 

Her book is partly about the trauma and PTSD she suffered as a result of growing up in Derry during the Troubles, and how those experiences made it impossible for her to feel safe in most places. And it’s about how she discovered áiteanna tanaí, caol áit – “thin places” – in the landscape (which Duolingo has recently taught me is tírdhreach in Irish), where the distance between the earthly world and the world of spirit is shrunk to nothing. “They are places that make us feel something larger than ourselves, as though we are held in a place between worlds,” she writes. 

“The natural world in the wilderness on both sides of that unseen border [between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland] dragged me back to the land of the living, and it held me there,” ní Dochartaigh writes. She describes the Atlantic as her favorite body of water, “the one that held me over the last three years.” 

I know this feeling, this sense of belonging and deep safety in certain places, when it’s rare for me to feel that way among people or in urban environments. In wild spaces the land practically vibrates with energy, often a welcoming one. But I’m rarely able to visit the places that feel that way to me, and I struggle to find similar ones in the middle of my densely packed urban city. We have beautiful parks, both ones landscaped by human hands and others left to their own devices, but it’s difficult to plug into them while a steady stream of hikers, children and dogs pass by. 

"Places do not heal us; they do not take the suffering we have known and bury it in their bellies. Places do not gather the broken parts of us up and stitch them back together. Places do not make the light shine on crow-black nights. Places do not take away our sorrow; they do not unearth the words buried under frozen bog-land; they do not call the birds back when they have been long gone from our sky,” ní Dochartaigh writes. “Places do not heal us. Places only hold us; they only let us in. Places only hold us close enough that we can finally see ourselves reflected back."

Casting about last night for something soothing, I turned to a recording of Patrick Wolf performing two songs for his Patreon supporters earlier this year: “Penzance,” a B-side from years ago, written about a town near the southern tip of England, followed by a cover of “Ari’s Song” by Nico. The recording is just piano, a loop of ethereal violin, and Patrick’s clear, steady voice. Listening to it felt like coming home. Like being held. 

Like ní Dochartaigh, Patrick Wolf often writes about the wild places that have held him, places where he saw himself reflected back. They’re frequently the landscapes of the southwestern UK: Cornwall, Penzance, Godrevy Point, Land’s End, Teignmouth. Places that felt enchanted, áiteanna tanaí, when I visited them, places captured gorgeously in Katherine May’s book about circumnavigating the southwest of England and coming to terms with her autistic mind, “The Electricity of Every Living Thing.” 

“There were devils in the winds that night, walking fire among the hills,” Wolf sings. “And many voices called me out to the cliffs, but you held me safe. You wrestled me still.” And then, in “Ari’s Song,” “Sail away, my little boy. Let the rain wash away your cloudy days. Sail away into a dream. Let the wind send you a fantasy of the ancient silver sea.” Nico was singing to her son; Wolf sounds like he’s singing to his younger self. 

And, perhaps, to my younger self, too. I grew up in rural northern California, with regular visits to places like the Sonoma Coast and Armstrong Redwoods, and even the feral places near my home. The trees that grew tart Gravenstein apples and the tall silver birches that swayed in the breeze held me. The woodpile, that endless treasure trove of insects, spiders and reptiles, kept me open and curious. The gate to the field behind my house, and the ring of willows beyond it, were a wardrobe to Narnia. As I got older, music began to offer new worlds I could inhabit, in-between places where I could be held and seen just as I am. Music and nature have been my steadfast companions. 

I’m grateful for new music, or new spins on older music, from some of my favorites, like Patrick Wolf and Hozier, who released his gorgeous new song “Swan Upon Leda” Friday. (Like ní Dochartaigh, it, too, crosses that unseen Irish border in one verse.) Their songs are like cozy forts I can curl up inside, escape hatches where I can let my mask slip. But even songs about wild places, about áiteanna tanaí, are no substitute for the real thing. I feel the pull so strongly, but I don’t know where to go. I hope an answer comes soon.

Why Hozier’s fan comments are the best by Beth Winegarner

Andrew Hozier Byrne, best known by his stage name, Hozier, inspires a kind of fan devotion that is intense, even for fan devotion. Aside from his megahit “Take Me To Church,” I was late in discovering his music (although I firmly believe that music, no matter how old, comes alive for us right when we need it), and fell in love not just with his songs but also the commentary on his YouTube videos. I once said on Twitter that fan comments on Hozier videos were my new favorite form of literature, and that remains true.

I love how these comments convey a passion so fervent that the rules of grammar and syntax break down. I love the mythology that has sprung up around him; that he is some sort of mythological forest creature, or an honorary lesbian. In several spots, there are lengthy comment threads about his hands.

As I promised back in December, in this post I’ve compiled some of my favorite comments on Hozier’s YouTube videos. I’ve also provided links to the videos. In some cases the comments will make more sense if you’ve watched the videos, but I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to spend an hour watching them all. Then again, they’re all very, very good. I promise!

“In a Week”

  • “cute date idea: run away and get married in the woods, and then lay down and decompose together”

  • “This is song is like caressing my hair and cuddling me to sleep, without the promise of tomorrow”

  • “i love the way the irish can sing about decay and corpses and graves and the like with such incredible lusciousness.  brings to mind sinead o'connor's, "i am stretched on your grave." buzzards, insects, foxes, ravens. so nice.

“Work Song”

  • “hosier said ‘fuck it i'll just invent love’ and then wrote this”

  • “‘Lay me gently in the cold dark earth; No grave can hold my body down, I'll crawl home to her’ GOOD LORD THIS LINE MAKES ME FEEL THINGS I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW I COULD FEEL”

  • “This song has so much of the energy as one of my favorite lines of poetry, ‘They asked “Do you love her to death?” I said “Speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life.”’”

  • “hozier, a straight man, has somehow perfectly nailed the feeling of gay yearning”

  • “The reason lesbians/bi women like hozier so much is bc he sings about women in a longing beautiful way”

“To Be Alone”

  • “i dont know what im feeling but ive never felt it more intensely”

  • “Love how gritty and dark this version is, feels like he's dragging you through mud and rocks back to his bog-shack while you're half-conscious”

  • If Hozier ever kidnaps me and takes me to a distant unknown bog surrounded by an endless forest, mind your own business and do not call the police

  • Raise your hand if you've fallen in love with Hozier and now you can't go back

“NFWMB”

  • “Whenever I meet a man I come here to remind myself that I deserve better”

  • “I'm a lesbian but I would die for this man”

  • “A rare video of Jesus playing guitar”

  • “I will never get over Hozier saying ‘honey.’”

  • “if love doesn’t feel like this then what’s the point”

“As it Was” (Uploaded to YouTube after a long absence from the public eye)

  • “the forest nymph is emerging back to life with little bread crumbs of music”

  • “Tell the Satyrs they don't need to look for Pan anymore, we found him”

  • “Andrew its 3AM and I'm sobbing”

  • “it’s 7am and im already crying”

  • “Please sir stop making me yearn this early in the morning”

“From Eden”

  • “Hoziers music: a gentle beat with some nice jazzy guitar. Hozier lyrics: innocence died screaming”

  • “Director: How slow-mo do you want this music video to be? Hozier: Yes”

  • “why does hozier’s songs make me nostalgic over memories that never happened”

“Whole Lotta Love” (Led Zeppelin Cover)

  • “so basically i just sat here with my mouth open the whole time...speechless.”

  • “When both  your hands are trembling before  you touch that guitar to play.  O man, it's going down”

  • “Andrew is fire.”

  • “I'm pretty upset that I didn't get to hear Hozier sing ‘I'm gonna give you every inch of my love’“

  • “only hozier could make this song sound wholesome”

”Talk”

  • ”Hozier using Greek Mythology references, the absolute AUDACITY of this man.”

  • “‘Imagine being loved by me’ THIS MAN KNOWS THE POWER HE HOLDS”

  • “‘Imagine being loved by me’ spaghetti is falling out of my pockets and I'm sweating buckets god that's so hot”

  • ”’must talk pretty so lovely lady won’t know I have carnal desires ever at all’ our lesbian king returns in full force wow”

  • ”This is what a level 20 bard sounds like ladies and gentlemen”

I woke up with these songs in my head by Beth Winegarner

Thanks, YouTube Music, for making this image so I didn’t have to.

Ever since I started listening to popular music, around age 10, I’ve been aware that, most mornings when I wake up, there’s a song playing in my head. I’ve often wondered what it would look like if I started tracking those songs: Are there any over-arching themes? Are they relaying subliminal messages? Are they entirely random, or are they mostly songs I’ve heard recently?

It took me until late 2021 to start tracking them, in the hope of perhaps answering some of those questions. I created a playlist on YouTube Music, my subscription service of choice, and set a reminder on my phone to notice what song is playing in my head when I wake up and add it to the playlist. If it’s a song I’ve already added, then I skip the process for that day.

So far, the answers to the above questions are: No, no, no, and no. Mostly they are catchy songs I’ve heard recently, but not always. Once in a while, it’s a song I haven’t heard in years, or a song I barely know. (One morning I had to sing what I could remember to my kiddo, since it was a tune she knew but I didn’t.) I’ve been listening to a ton of Hozier over the past year, so he shows up a lot and, in general, these songs (regardless of genre) skew toward the catchy end of the spectrum. I suppose that’s to be expected, given the nature of earworms. I mean, if you look closely, my brain even Rickrolled me one morning. Jeez.

Now that the playlist is nearing 100 songs, I thought I’d share — and perhaps inspire others to do this as well. I know I’ve inspired one person already (Hi, Rosa!), and it would be fun to get more people paying attention to this stuff. Not for science or anything, but just to make ourselves more mindful of the songs our brains play for us when we first greet the day.

You can see and hear my playlist here:

https://music.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLpEjxKHxZD0mOzAqyMxIYSmamuf1nl4yz

The music, books, movies and TV shows I enjoyed most in 2021 by Beth Winegarner

Music and stories have always been a significant coping mechanism for me, and 2021 was no different. As the year comes to a close, I wanted to share a few of the things that brought me joy and/or distraction.

Music:

Hozier: Before this year, I pretty much only knew this Irish musician as the “Take Me to Church” guy. But then, one day, YouTube Music randomly played me “In the Woods Somewhere” and I stopped breathing, it was so beautiful. I fell deeply in love with his catalogue, especially songs like “To Be Alone,” which made me feel seen in ways I rarely do. I suspect he’ll have new music out in 2022, and I can’t wait. Someday I’m going to write a whole post about his fandom calling him Faery King and Forest Daddy. Just you wait. 

“The Harder They Fall” Soundtrack: I love this movie for its representation, its style, its casting (I’ve had a crush on Jonathan Majors since “Last Black Man in San Francisco”), and its music. Particular favorites include the addictive title track by Koffee and “Better Than Gold” by Barrington Levy. It even made me like a CeeLo Green song. And I love the tidbits of dialogue from the movie, especially the part where Regina King’s character shoots a man before he can finish saying a word that begins with n.

Emma Ruth Rundle, “Engine of Hell:” I’ve long found a home in Emma Ruth Rundle’s bleak, beautiful songs, and her 2021 release is her most bleak and beautiful yet. The bare-bones arrangement, just Rundle’s voice and guitar or piano, gives you nowhere to hide from her vulnerable voice and stark lyrics. Favorite song: “Body.” 

Books:

“32 Words for Field,” Manchán Magan: I began learning Irish through Duolingo this year, partly in the hope of getting closer to some of my ancestors by speaking the language they commonly spoke before it was outlawed by colonial England. I eventually discovered Magan, who’s devoted to reviving the language. “32 Words” focuses on nearly extinct Irish words, such as “sopachán” for nesting material (but also an unkempt person), or “sí gaoithe,” for a gust of wind, particularly if it’s caused by fairies. But he also writes about connections between native Irish people and the Middle East and India, and about communing with the Cailleach in an abandoned kiln. It’s a great read. 

“White Magic,” Elissa Washuta: Washuta writes essays the way I wish I could. She goes deep and wide, bringing seemingly disparate subjects together, tethering macro to micro, nature to the heart, pop culture to spirit. This book shook me to my core. 

“The Only Good Indians,” Stephen Graham Jones: A perfect mix of humor, horror, mythology and indigenous reality. I can’t wait to read more from him. 

Movies:

“Bright Star:” Ben Whishaw is perfect as John Keats and Abbie Cornish is astonishing as his fashion-forward lover, Fanny Brawne, in this Regency-period sketch by Jane Campion

“Hunt for the Wilderpeople:” Perhaps the most unlikely buddy comedy of all time, featuring a rebellious teen (Julian Dennison) and a cantankerous man (Sam Neill) who reluctantly becomes a father figure. Written and directed by one of my faves, Taika Waititi.

“Magic Mike XXL:” I had no idea what to expect going into this movie, which I watched with online groups twice this year. I didn’t expect it to be sex-positive, pleasure-affirming spin on masculinity, sexuality and brotherhood, but it is. So good. 

“Ondine:” I joke that this movie stars “Colin Farrell’s eyebrows,” but in reality I found a lot of solace in this movie about a strange woman who gets caught in an Irish fisherman’s net, and who may or may not be a selkie. 

“The Green Sea:” Randal Plunkett, the current Lord Dunsany, gained a lot of attention this year for his plans to restore and re-wild his family’s ancestral home. He also released a quietly brilliant film, “The Green Sea,” about a novelist and former heavy metal musician who meets her own characters while living in a remote manor house. 

“Nomadland:” I saw a lot of myself in Frances McDormand’s character, Fern, as she makes her way across the American landscape in her van. She reads to me as neurodiverse, probably autistic, but that isn’t the point of the story. Representation matters.

TV: 

“The Witcher:” I tried to watch this series when the first season came out in 2019, but found the triple timelines confusing and bailed after about four episodes. But with the new season coming out this year, I gave it another try – and fell in love. This is a series that rewards repeated viewings, and not just because you get to spend more time with Geralt of Rivia, TV’s yummiest monster-hunter. Season 2 is excellent as well, but much easier to follow. The whole thing makes me want to pick up my sword again.

“Reservation Dogs:” There is so much to love in this series: the teen actors who anchor it. The pull between home and escape. The hilarious unknown warrior. The “Willow” in-jokes. Mose and Mekko. The humor and heart. More shows like this, please. 

“Midnight Mass:” I really enjoyed Mike Flanagan’s previous series, “The Haunting of Hill House” and “The Haunting of Bly Manor,” but appreciated that he went in a new direction for “Midnight Mass.” This series takes a bunch of traditional horror tropes in new directions, to brilliant effect. 

“Shetland:” I am abolitionist in my real-life views, but I still love stories in which grizzled detectives solve crimes set in remote, close-knit communities. This makes for an uneasy headspace, but then again, half the reason I love this series is for its far-flung Scottish landscapes, and probably another 30 percent is for the accents. It also handled a sexual-assault plot in a way that felt honest and respectful, not gratuitous. That’s still vanishingly rare.

“Normal People:” Two Irish teens find unexpected comfort and pleasure together, but life finds ways of keeping them apart. One of the most realistic love stories I’ve ever watched, and the stars, Daisy Edgar-Jones and Paul Mescal, have unbelievable chemistry together. 

“Lovecraft Country:” As someone who’s very uncomfortable with H.P. Lovecraft’s deeply racist and xenophobic legacy, I appreciated the effort to tell a story of ancient evil through a Black and historical lens. “Lovecraft Country” isn’t perfect, but it aims high, and tells some unforgettable stories. 

Yes, I Love Heavy Metal by Beth Winegarner

Image from a T-shirt designed by Philipp Rietz, and sold by Threadless. Click the image to buy the shirt!

Image from a T-shirt designed by Philipp Rietz, and sold by Threadless. Click the image to buy the shirt!

It's a common scene: the topic of music comes up, and everyone mentions the kinds they like most. And then it's my turn.

And they say: "Heavy metal? You like heavy metal?"

In some ways, I understand. The unshakeable stereotype of the heavy metal fan is a white guy in his teens or 20s with long hair, ratty jeans and a bad attitude. You know, like Billy Hargrove, Max's sociopathic older brother in Stranger Things. (By the way, you should totally read my friend's takedown of Billy over on Metalsucks.)

I resemble this stereotype in almost no way. I'm quiet, female, and prefer stretch knits, florals and cute animals. I'm also professional, in my 40s, and a mom. I sometimes wear band shirts, but not often enough to call it my personal style. But other people's reactions sometimes leave me feeling like I have to assure them I'm not sullying myself with something gross and unseemly.

The surprise most often comes from people who do not listen to heavy metal, and who may not be aware just how broad a category of music it is. Or they may not know that metal fans tend to be smarter and geekier than average, and that the music tends to have a calming effect on fans. Maybe when I say I love heavy metal, they're imagining this: 

King-Diamond-Mayhem-Festival-2905.jpg

When the bands I most listen to look more like this: 

(No disrespect to King Diamond, whose influence is both massive and undeniable.) Metal is beloved for its intensity and majesty. It makes everything sound more epic. It transcends the mundane. Guitars and vocals soar, or they descend into the depths, meeting you where you are. Some of it's challenging and complex. Some of it's subtle and melodic. There's a lot to explore. And, yes, I love it.