Destiny Stopped Screaming: A Tribute to Adrian Borland

THOSE FIRST CHORDS HIT.

They keep building up.

Then the drums come in.

Then the synth. Dark and uncompromising.

Then he sings.

"So many feelings pent up in here,
left alone I'm with the one I most fear."

The first words to come out of Adrian Borland's mouth for the first album by his band The Sound. Words that would ring true 19 years later when he succumbed to his condition. The one he most feared killed him.

"I can't escape myself," he sings with this almost passive-aggression. The instruments halt before he can finish the sentence, leaving him with just his own voice to continue the lyric. This is The Sound, a band who released five albums since their formation in 1979 and break-out in 1987.

This isn't where Adrian Borland, a young Londoner with a lot to say, began his musical career. It started two years earlier, in 1977, the peak of punk. He and his school-friends started messing around, playing songs in Adrian's front room. They eventually self-recorded, with Adrian's dad Robert acting as engineer and producer. Together, they pressed one thousand copies of their debut album as The Outsiders, calling it 'Calling on Youth' and containing both typical punk-rock numbers and the introspective, brooding tracks that would later define Borland. It came as some surprise to me to learn that it wasn't even Borland who penned the lyrics for this album, because they seemed very like him, especially in tracks like 'Walking Through a Storm.'

This album has the distinction of being the first DIY LP punk release in Britain, a fact that seems to have completely disappeared from music for reasons that completely escape me, although as would become apparent as Borland's career continued, he didn't have the greatest relationship with the general public: his music never gained popularity, and this was something that contributed to his tragic ending.

I'm going to stop writing so formally now. The Outsiders made another album a year later, then, after a member departed, they deformed and reformed as The Sound. And Jesus, is that music good. I first got into post-punk music a few years ago, and although in general The Sound weren't mentioned often, in that corner of the blogosphere that really explored post-punk, they were respected and lauded for their introspective lyrics and complex, beautiful music. It took me a while to venture into them, for some reason I was put off by the band name. It seemed like such a weird band name, but now the name brings feelings to me as dear as hearing the name of an old friend. Even though I never met Adrian and he passed before I could even consciously grasp what music really could be, I feel like he is a friend to me. I stupidly look to him for guidance in my hours of need, almost placing him as my personal guardian angel: a powerful, incredible man like him is certainly an inspiration to me, and so this placement I feel is entirely justified.

He suffered badly from depression, but this was worsened by his diagnosis with schizoaffective disorder. Wikipedia says schizoaffective disorder is a combination of psychosis and abnormal moods. A fellow band-member once talked of a moment, shortly before they disbanded in 1987, in which Adrian was on a plane convinced that he was abducted by aliens and that his fellow band-member was an ET. It may sound funny, but the tragedy that surrounded this is all too pure: his condition worsened in the late 80's, and his band-members decided they couldn't let him continue in the band as he was spiraling downward and what he truly needed was help. He was adament he could continue, but they couldn't enable that, so they left. He was lost, but soon found himself in other projects: he started a side project called Honolulu Mountain Daffodils, a bizarre psychedlic-infused alternative rock band with crazy pseudonyms and cool song titles.  The lack of success The Sound found with the mainstream I feel contributed partly to this bizarre concoction: my theory is that Adrian wanted to see whether his name itself was a taint to his music, so started something new with a new name, and really hoped it would sell. I can just imagine him truly excited, flirting with the idea, "what if the Daffodils became really popular?" he'd ask himself. "Wouldn't that be great?"

Sadly, it wasn't to be. So he left after three albums and continued on with his solo career, by then into his second album. Three more albums, and more production credits, and then writing and producing music for a new band called White Rose Transmission, almost completing a sixth studio album, and then he ended it. It was all too much.

I read online somewhere that he didn't commit suicide that morning. I read that instead, he was "murdered by his illness." I would agree with that. This is something I think about daily. I find myself wandering around in the transom of my brain, and it always comes back to Adrian. I have such a profound connection with a man who I haven't even met. His lyrics read so true to me, his story so tragic and yet so hopeful at the same time. I was walking home from work a few weeks ago and began thinking about it. "He was murdered by his illness," kept repeating, cyclical in my brain. I almost cried there on the street. It's weird. I can't explain it really, but I know that anyone who is a fan of Adrian will understand exactly where I'm coming from. The man could cut your siders, he knew how to get in and strike a chord.

Just before his suicide, he wrote on his website about how happy he was with White Rose Transmission's new album, '700 Miles of Desert.' "It's hard to be objective but I'll just say the final mastered slice of silver has rarely left my CD player," he said. His optimism was clear. His optimism was always clear. Although he wrote about some truly dark things, and some self-deprecating material, he was always so positive. This can't be more clear than in 'Someone Will Love You Today', a track from his third solo album 'Beautiful Ammunition'. "Someone will love you today, hold on now someone will care" he sings with glee. This song has a somber tone to it after learning that it was indeed played at his funeral. I can't imagine the emotions of his friends and family as that song played: to really comprehend that he didn't have to fall victim to himself - to know that he was truly capable of more had he just fought a bit more. But I know it's hard. Impossible, even.

In his last blog post, he also talked of his new album he was halfway through. "Six is my lucky number so maybe I'll find a wider audience with this one," he wrote. "This is going to be another epic." He suggested some titles for it: "I might call it Destiny Stopped Screaming as I'll either finally get the music in my head on tape or I'll feel like quitting altogether, so it will fit either way!" he jokes. "Other possible titles are Body of Work #19, Get Me a Witness, In the Field, Land Meets Ocean or Harmony and Destruction."

But perhaps the most upsetting thing to me is the note he signed off with. His last communication with his fans, his last effort before a month later jumping in front of an early morning London train. He wrote:

To those that still care, thanks, see you soon. You'll be hearing from me!

I hear from you every day, Adrian. In your music; in your lyrics; in your soul.

R.I.P. Adrian Borland.
December 6th 1957 - April 26th 1999

Because you are breathing...

Let me explain the name of my blog

Well, actually, there are two names. The URL is "Beautiful Ammunition" - this is the third solo album by Adrian Borland, perhaps my favourite musician. I've written a piece about Adrian Borland which is on another blog I had for a while, but I will upload that to this blog because it fits far better here. So, that's the URL. The name of the blog itself is "the earth is not a cold dead place." This is the third album by Explosions in the Sky, one of my favourite bands. They're a post-rock band who helped popularize the crescendo-driven instrumental sub-genre of post-rock and the music moves me more than any other music can. The titles of post-rock songs really summarize the feeling, but without lyrics, they remain vague enough to allow us to fill in the gaps with our own emotional responses (unless you're listening to Red Sparowes!) 

I was thinking in the days leading up to the creation of this blog, "What should it be called?" It was something that troubled me, but I never applied any real thought until I sat at my laptop on www.blogger.com and began the process of making it. I stared at the entry that asked what the title of the blog should be, and without hesitation nor conscious effort, I typed, and what appeared was "the earth is not a cold dead place." 

The reason it means so much to me is because of where the title continues. On the vinyl release, etched onto the disc it follows the sentence with, "because you are breathing, because you are listening." I think there's something in that. Because I'm breathing, the Earth isn't cold, isn't dead. Life is such a beautiful and wonderous thing and it's something so harshly and vastly misunderstood and it saddens me. The fact that I am merely alive is something so miraculous, the fact that I have a consciousness, that I'm aware of who I am and where I am in this small corner of time I occupy, the knowledge that I am occupying a collection of atoms that have been around since the inception of the universe and have lived through so many different forms... it's all so strange, we're all so connected, and it's quite beautiful. I know I live in a near-constant state of cynicism and negativity, and it's so exhausting and it becomes a vicious cycle in which, my negativity makes me more depressed, which makes me more negative, which makes me more depressed, which makes me more...

Even though I live in this state, I'm fighting it now. For the first time, I'm fighting it, and for the first time, I'm winning. I went out clubbing last night (Christmas Eve!) at 1:30am after an impulsive decision following a phone-call from a drunk friend. I didn't act fake or seductive, for once I went as me. I hated it, I felt so out-of-place, so judged by everyone around me, but I didn't try and act fake. The feelings I had were real, were me. I didn't resort to the costume of confidence and allure this time, and that made me feel good. So I felt out-of-place, but in its place was another piece to the puzzle of who I am. I know I'll be able to enjoy things like clubbing soon, and that excites me greatly. So, for now, I want to wish y'all a merry Christmas and leave you with an excerpt from a screenplay I written earlier in the year, all about life and the universe and its beauty. 

Sometimes I really can't comprehend it. But that proves that the Earth is not a cold, dead place. No matter what you may think or feel. So just find the reasons in yourself and your life to know it's not cold and dead. I guarantee if you look in the right places, you'll find them.

If you wanna find out what's behind these cold eyes, you'll just have to blow your way through the disguise

If you act a certain way for long enough, you become it.

There is a natural state of being that I exist in when I am around people. That state is the state of self-doubt and questioning. I seem to instinctively assume anyone I'm with thinks I'm stupid, weak and lesser than them. Six years ago, I would combat this insecurity by acting as weird as possible - and yes, I really did act weird. It's no surprise that my mum thought I had aspergers. It's no surprise that I was bandled between several psychiatrists to try and unlock the mysteries of me. Let's take a scenario that was and is very common: I'm with a friend, and that friends bumps into someone they know. I stand there, awkward, and I've suddenly entered an entire state of being. It's really quite amazing how quickly my brain shuts down and enters a completely different reality. I suddenly perceive the situation different, I become flushed, I become hyper-aware of my body and my facial expressions.

And in that situation, I start to think to myself: "I need to let this person know I'm not stupid. I need to let them know I'm funny. I need to let them know this and that." I can't just be myself and let them know me, I have to project specific personality traits to them so they think of me in a certain way, because the alternative - knowing me and judging me for who I really am - is too scary. If I meet this new person and act weird to them, and they think I'm weird, who gives a shit? That isn't me they think is weird, that's this alternate version of myself catered specifically for this one individual. It really doesn't make any sense; there's no logic or reason behind it, but it felt comforting to me to behave in this way. It was a protection.

I still do this now - or at least, I did. I try not to. It's hard to stop something you're so used to doing, especially when that something is a thick defense mechanism to protect my self-worth from being shattered too much. I do it in a different way, these days. If I meet a male, I instinctively attempt to emasculate that person in order to remain the 'alpha-male' of whatever group I may be in at that specific moment. I do this to an awful manner - walking down the street, I will glare at males who I feel threatened by. "How dare they potentially be better men than me? Boy, I'll show them! I'll stare at them and broadcast my intense insecurities to them and the rest of the world!" Yeah, it's stupid, and it's a fucking awful trait to have. 

And this leads to how I act in general around people. It's very hard for me to grow comfortable with someone and act more like myself, so I tend to not try anymore. I don't act completely different, mind. I just pick and choose, I guess. I keep the real me at arm's length but I never reach to grab it, instead, I just brush my fingertips along it every now and then, perhaps reminding myself of who I am or letting others know there is genuineness to me. My defense mechanism has forced me to act 'dark,' or 'evil.' I know that sounds ridiculous, and believe me, I'm constantly aware of its ridiculousness, but I have become accustomed to ignoring my reasoning and I am seduced too easily by darkness. There's a lot to talk about regarding darkness, or being a damaged person, but that's for another day. For now, I'll just say that it's my perception that being 'damaged' or 'dark' is romanticized heavily in the media, and many males are affected by it in the same way many girls are affected by how body image is portrayed in the media. I have been swayed entirely by this concept and for a long time tried to turn myself into someone who's 'dark' - I thought it made me attractive, alluring, intriguing, mysterious. Maybe it did, but it wasn't me. Why do I want to be things I'm not? If the real me isn't mysterious, that's fine. But the real me has other things that can replace that. It's just very difficult to be myself. In fact, up until a year ago, I would never even call myself a writer. People knew passingly that I write, but it wasn't something I used to identify myself. But I like that. I like being a writer, because it's me. It's the most real voice I have, and it's the shovel I'm using to dig myself out of my desolate pit.

But I'm trying to be different now. I'm trying to connect more with myself. I'm growing my hair out longer, to a style I want instead of a style I feel best projects who I want to be, and I'm no longer even aiming towards having my personality be a certain way. I am just being. I just am. I know there is a real Ryan buried deep beyond the shit inside me, and I know I can pull him out again. It isn't too late yet. There is a Pink Floyd lyric that really summarizes just what could have happened to me if I didn't have this epiphany:

"And it's too late to lose the weight you used to need to throw around."

Quite a startling concept. I act dark, I brush away the real me and I don't open up to people - I do this for so long that eventually it just becomes the real me. I feel like it almost has, but I've grabbed the hand of the real me and now I'll pulling it out of the water before it drowns. So now I'm blowing my way through the disguise. And I'm finally liking myself again. Not all the time - my self-loathing comes in big bursts and is still the majority of my self-reflection, but it's no longer the entirety, which is a start.

It's so good to see you, you know it's been too long

"Isn't it amazing? Human emotions. It's weird how two people can be so close with each-other, tell each-other everything, ring up at 2 in the morning when you need someone to talk to..."

These are words from my diary. According to my diary, I written this on the 19th August 2008. According to my calender, that's six years ago. I'm 21 now, I was 15 then. So that's six years; six years of building who I am and tearing it down and building it back up again. I find it interesting looking back at my diary and seeing what I was thinking back then. I'm amused especially because I constantly refer to my "thirty year old self" in a self-deprecating manner.

"Just think, I could've been watching Dr. Zhivago right now. :( Ah well! My Thirty Year Old Self (hello) probably thinks it's crap."

I still haven't even watched Dr. Zhivago, but it's nice and funny to see how much I was in touch with who I was and who I wanted to be. I thought I had it all figured out when I was fifteen - I knew what I wanted in life, I knew what I wanted from existing, I knew who I wanted to surround myself with and I knew that I wanted to fall in love desperately. In fact, I'd hazard a guess that my pursuit of the perfect romance was probably the defining aspect of my teen years - I was disastrously unsuccessful with girls for too long, and so I seemed to fall in love with the first one that showed me the least bit of attention. Yes, that was a reference to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, a film I was so obsessed with that I announced dramatically that my first-born would be a daughter and she would be called Clementine. I remember, embarrassingly, finding one of those character-based Myspace pages that some poor fella made, to curb his own romantic shortcomings, based on the character of Clementine from Eternal Sunshine. I chatted back and forth for months with that account, knowing full-well it was likely a middle aged man, but also somehow hoping, using it to fill in a gap I knew I had.

Now I'm 21, and these intervening six years from that diary entry to now have been, to say the least, tumultuous. I've done some good things. I've done some bad things. I've learnt to love myself, and I've learnt to hate myself. I've hurt people, and I've hurt myself. Lately, I've been feeling lower than perhaps I've ever felt before. In fact, a few days ago, I went into my kitchen and held one of the knives to my body, gripping the handle, just wanting to know what it feels like to be near death. I'm a shell of who I was, and in that moment, nothing made sense and nothing was real. My eyes that saw the world were miles ahead of me, my vision a peephole in the distance. The light took too long to travel from that peephole to my emotional state, and finally the gap got to me and I just wanted to know what the escape route of suicide would be like. So there, in my kitchen, holding that knife, something happened. Something small, insignificant and mostly ordinary. My dog, whom I've lately bonded with more because I've empathized with her lately (she's had two miscarriages, she's never been the same since) came into the room. She was frantic. It's like she knew something was up. I've since researched and whilst the jury is still out, I'd like to believe she recognized something in my behaviour, that she felt my deep pain. She ran over to me wagging her tale so hard her spine was cracking. I looked at her and then suddenly put the knife down and burst into tears. I fell to the floor and let her jump all over me. It was incredibly comforting. I didn't think I'd be so comforted by something that doesn't even have thumbs.

A lot of things have led me to the point I'm in now. I've been horrible to most people in my life - one person in particular. I've ruined any sense of self-identity and I've disconnected my emotional wellbeing from everything I do. I have acted fake around everyone. It's really something: some people know me as shy, some as charming, some as manipulative, some as alluring. No one really knows the real me because I've become so good at wearing different costumes. But it creates a dichotomy - my duality rips apart who I am into little pieces and uses each of these different pieces (manipulative, funny, whatever) and builds from there. The real me, the dustless empty space where the pieces used to form one, longs to get out. When I act cocky and assertive, the real me, the neurotic and anxious me, scratches and claws to get out but I never let it. It confuses me, and makes me feel even more disconnected.

So I finally decided that I needed to change. Earlier this year I made a vow to become a better person and this is the last step. I anticipated how low I'd feel - I've had to face the abyss of my own past and my own demons and it most certainly has faced me back. But here I am, laying it all out. This is my declaration. So whenever I can, I'm going to talk about a different topic. I'm going to weave topics I care about and topics that have relevance to me with my 'life-story' (don't worry, I'd like to think I'm a good enough writer to not make it boring) and I'm going to thematically weave all this in with different songs. Because music is incredibly influential in my life. I just want to find who I am again, and become a better person, because lately I haven't been either of those things and deep down I know I'm good.

So this is my declaration. My name's Ryan. I'm a writer. I write screenplays, mostly. They're all about love and death and legacy and ego and depression. I want to direct films as a career, and I'm making my first film next year (although my depression seems to tell me I'm not, but fuck that guy). I'm constantly asking myself whether I'm a good person or bad person. I think it's easier to be bad, so I usually opt for that choice even though it kills me inside. I have an odd family life. I collect vinyl records and I used to collect Chucky dolls. You'll get to know me a lot more during the foreseeable future, but for now,

you'll be hearing from me.