Featured Essay: “It is not just music for most of us”: Notes on Raein and Records From Departed Friends

by Kirbie Bennett

The Present: I’m continually dismantled by the passage of time. Perhaps that’s one reason I’m drawn to collecting physical media like vinyl records: because when I reach for a record I want to hear, I can most likely recall the time and place that specific album was purchased. Usually, the stories are not interesting, such as when a record is purchased online with the click of a button. Other times, I have vivid memories of buying vinyl records at a show in a tiny venue that’s no longer around in a city that no longer looks like it once did. And then, some records were gifted to me by family and loved ones; those are the records that keep my heart because when I return to those, I know I’m preserving a moment shared with someone dear to me, especially if they’re no longer here. What I’m saying is listening to a vinyl record is one way of resisting linear time. That’s what I experience when I listen to the 2003 album, Il N’y A Pas De Orchestre by the Italian screamo band, Raein. The record was a gift from my old friend, Jonathan. 

2018: So far we have made it 18 years into this car-sick carnival ride of a century. One morning, I open up a social media app on my phone and doomscroll past one headline after another about the current unpopular president doing more unpopular things. Then I browse further to find another tragedy unfolding. Friends are posting about you, Jonathan. One after another, they’re saying goodbye, and I wonder if I’m dreaming. This can’t be real. Jonathan, you’re a father and a brother, you’re tethered to this world, it’s too soon for you to leave. I’m in shock, and once again I’m dismantled by time. I haven’t seen you in years, Jonathan, and now it’s final. We’ve been friends since high school and in college, we’d work together at various restaurants in bordertowns around the Navajo Nation. And you always had the best music to recommend. I still have that record you gave me years ago. My grief causes me to reach for it on the shelf. On the cover, there are three panels displaying someone’s face in high contrast black and white. Around the thin white cardboard jacket holding the record, creases are visible. Some of the wear was left by you and some left by me. 

2002: I’ve entered this century realizing I share a birthday with Joey Ramone, though he’s passed on by the time I learn about my birthday twin. We briefly shared a timeline, but he remains alive through the stereo. And I don’t really care what it means to be punk because like Joey Ramone, I also adore pop music but I think I’m missing out on something by not having a record player. See, whenever I get a new punk CD, the label usually includes a mail-order catalog, advertising 7” singles with exclusive b-sides or the LP edition containing a vinyl-only bonus track or different artwork. Sometimes after looking through those listings of records, the little plastic disc I purchased seems a little dull. From what I can tell, some bands only live in the grooves of vinyl records, and their existence is a mystery to me.

2004: In the US, the subterrain world of punk and emo receives more mainstream attention via music television and glossy magazines. A young Kirbie can’t resist the hype or the swoopy hair/tight flared jeans fashion. Elsewhere in the world, the raw anarchist spirit of the underground still thrives. Turn your ear toward Europe and you can hear young screamo bands collaborating on split 7” singles, hammering out philosophical rhapsodies. For them, it’s more like revolutions per second. The Italian skramz bands are reinventing the genre and burning it down simultaneously. There’s La Quiete, The Death of Anna Karina and Raein, to name a few. The music is a chaotic swirl of poetry and philosophy, bound by guitars so loud they cut like barbed wire. As a nod to their love of surrealism, Raein has titled their 2003 sophomore album after a scene in the David Lynch film, Mulholland Drive. 

2018: There is no band. It is all a recording. The words crackle through speakers in my living room. The words are drenched in feedback. It all feels like a dream, Jonathan. You’re here, then you’re gone. But every time I hold this record, I’m taken back to that one evening in your old apartment, in that part of the city that no longer looks like it once did. 

2008: I’ve been a server at this restaurant for a few months now. During the day I’m taking classes, figuring out what the future looks like. Then I clock in here for the evening shift. The tips are decent but what makes every shift tolerable are the co-workers. A few of my high school friends work here too as cooks, including Jonathan. Restaurant work is all I’ve known since I was a teen and from what I’ve observed, when cooks talk shit, that’s their love language. Jonathan fills that role perfectly, on top of that the guy’s a passionate cook. One evening my co-worker Desirae and I get our shifts cut as soon as we arrive. Maybe it’s all the Bukowski poetry and stories I’ve been reading lately, but I’m ok with barely working. We drift around town for the evening, wandering among bookstores and coffee shops. It turns out Jonathan has the day off too. He invites us over to his new apartment. When we get there, Desirae joins him for a smoke. I’m only interested in the crate of vinyl records near the front door. With Jonathan’s approval, I begin flipping through his collection of blasphemous grindcore. Then I come across an album cover that looks glowing white. The cardboard jacket is thin, but the whole thing still feels indestructible. Then I see the band name on the lower right side: RAEIN. Over the years, I’ve branched out from punk, now exploring emo and its subgenres. All this music was meant for vinyl. And in my search for more screamo records, finding anything from this Italian band has eluded me. And yet, here’s their second full-length record, held in my hands in a New Mexico apartment filled with Navajos. Jonathan sees me holding the record and says, “That band’s sick.” Then he adds, “If you want that record, it’s yours, man.” I ask if he’s sure about that, then I insist on paying him something for it. I reach into my pocket and take out what I have in cash: five dollars. That’s more than enough for him. Jonathan takes one more hit and exhales a breath that travels through the years. 

2018: Jonathan is a loving, humorous friend with contagious laughter and a good ear for music. He’s a top-notch chef. He is also a father, a brother and a son. These are the versions of Jonathan I will remember. These versions of him outweigh the unanswered questions. For all I know, these heavy tragedies are caused by a broken, uncaring world. 

2008: The years are pressing against each other like hands trying to touch each other through walls. This morning, I’m only measuring time by the length of this record on repeat. One of my favorite moments on Il N’y A Pas De Orchestre is the track titled, “Artmachine Observation Tower.” It’s a moody instrumental that opens up the B-side. What resonates with me is the spoken word portion of the song: “It is not just music for most of us / A recollection of hope and broken dreams / It flows from our hearts through our bleeding lungs / To make you feel like we feel / Alive.” 

2018: Jonathan, every time I play this record I hope you can hear it on the other side. 

The Present: It’s a paradox: I’m in awe of Spring’s sunlight nestling in the Southwest mountains surrounding me this morning. But inside the grief is relentless. Recently I heard about another friend who died, someone I’ve known since childhood. Since we also loved the same bands, there’s another heart I’ll be thinking of when music fills the room. I’m continually dismantled by time and I know the world doesn’t stop for my grief. With that said, there’s a question I keep returning to: how do you translate grief into a blessing? In some way, we all want our living to be witnessed by someone so that when we leave, perhaps those memories can wrap their arms around the insurmountable mourning. This is the cosmic weight I attach to music. This is how for a moment I dismantle linear time. In other words, as long as the music’s playing, everyone I have loved and lost is alive again right here in the room of my heart.

Kirbie Bennett is an essayist, poet and audio producer from the Southwest. His print and audio work has appeared in High Country News, 68-to-oh5, Last Real Indians, KSUT Public Radio, The Durango Telegraph, Chapter House Journal and Four Corners Voices: Stories, Poetry, Essays. He is also part of the creative team behind The Magic City of the Southwest, a regional history podcast. Kirbie grew up on the Navajo Nation in Shiprock, NM. And Durango, Colorado is another place he calls home.

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