Age & Birthdate: August 28h, 1990 (26) Birthplace: Chicago, Illinois Location: Lachine Occupation: Record store clerk/guitarist Gender: Male Sexuality: Demiromantic Pansexual Length of Time in Montreal: Two years Faceclaim: Rami Malek
Omar Farouk took full responsibility for the fact that his parents left him on the stoop of an orphanage three days after he was born. After all, who would want to put up with his shit any longer than that? He was never one to blame his misfortune on others. In fact, it was a fucked up sort of hobby of his to break down all of the minutia in his life and figure out how they were all interconnected, and what he did to cause them. It always came back to that fateful day 26 years ago. It’s easy to be a loser when even the people who are obligated to love you ditch before your eyes are even really open.
Despite being an infant, there was very little interest in adopting him due to a daunting flare of health problems. Breathing treatments and cocktails of pills ruled his life. He outgrew the need for them by the time he was 10, but that was long enough to solidify a wall between himself and everyone else. He was quiet and reclusive. Strange. He had no interest in running and playing with the other children, instead choosing to remain inside, alone. A lack of motivation kept him from doing well in school, though he pursued his own interests with fervor.
One evening after dinner when the other orphans congregated to watch TV or play board games, Omar, true to form, wandered away from the common rooms in search of some place quiet. The attic had never been strictly off-limits, but the ladder was busted, and the light switches did absolutely nothing. No one wanted to go up there. But because privacy was so hard-won in an orphanage, Omar swiped a flashlight and took his chances. The bitter Chicago winter was noticeable up there, seeping through old, slanted windows and cracks in the roof. Rubbing his hands together, he lit a smoke and ambled through the dust and cobwebs. There were boxes of broken toys, photo albums, motheaten clothes. Leather trunks and lamp shades. Ancient sporting equipment. What caught Omar’s interest, however, were a couple of milk crates piled high with LP’s. He spent hours thumbing through the records. Nick Drake. The Violent Femmes. Pink Floyd. Then the flashlight flickered out and died.
After that, Omar had but one interest. Music. His nights were spent at local venues, or record shops. He started collecting vinyl, adding to the treasure trove he’d found in the attic of the orphanage. By the time he was 16, he was able to afford the Martin guitar he’d spotted in the window of the pawn shop so many years ago. It was impossible to pry him away from it. He was a natural. The callouses on his fingertips felt like they’d always been there, but there was nothing more satisfying than playing till he bled. A year of constant playing later, he was able to perform circles around the local giants, proving himself at a few open mic nights around town. He started his own band soon after, Lanterns, and skipped town with them to tour, leaving behind Chicago and the orphanage in which he grew up.
For six years, they roamed the country, booking show after show, and enjoying a nomadic, rootless lifestyle. Their notoriety began to grow their sixth year on the road, but it was around that time that things got grim. Drugs overtook several members of his band, and his own unreliable nature made it impossible for them to keep gigs or show up. The short stint of rising fame Lanterns experienced was ended when the lead singer overdosed, and, soon after, when Omar quit. Their last gig was in Montreal, so that’s where Omar stayed. He got a job as a record store clerk, and still plays, but only in private.
❝ people worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. nobody worries about kids listening to thousands - literally thousands - of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss.
Omar is very laid back. He is very good at mirroring calm, and despite any inner turmoil he might be experiencing, it’ll all just appear to be still waters to others. Inside, he struggles with the same things most orphans struggle with: an untiring sense of abandonment, constantly wondering if he’s good enough, delusional fantasies about what his life could have been. But, essentially, he has very little drive and very little self-confidence when it comes to anything but music. Even the success he experienced as a musician did little to dissolve the wall he keeps between himself and others. It was like putting on a mask, even though he was baring his soul through the music. Omar has an aloof nature about him, a sense of being disengaged with everything around him. The only time you might get a sense of his passion or the man that lives beneath a cool exterior is when you get him talking about music. His job at the record store suits him better than his previous job as a musician. Music has become something of a private affair for him. A way of communicating, another language that others couldn’t possibly understand. But he can talk about Neutral Milk Hotel, and Animal Collective and about why you should buy their albums until he’s blue in the face.
