@thedeedave will be Dropping his second Single of this year "Situation Part 2" Prod. by @whtsuptre SoundCloud, audiomack, iTunes, Spinrilla etc. #FMGforLife #FMG #DEEtheGreat #DeeDave #MrDontTellNobody #NewArtist #ArtistDevlopment #Discovery #aandr #listen
Your head jerks backwards, it smells strongly of something metallic and at the same time fresh, invoking the feel of slippery grass underfoot and damp fingertips trying to wring out some of the water from your sweater inside the apartmentâs foyer. Your shoulders suddenly feel as if something heavy is resting on top of them, and the oddest feeling that the air crackles with the static that youâve always known would foretell a storm, starts humming and buzzing along your skin. When you close your eyes, you can hear a faint pitter patter, like paper children applauding with rattling beads bouncing and plinking off your shades as, even though when you shove a hand up to your sunglasses, thereâs nothing on their surface.Â
You sit down with a bump, the bottle somehow still firmly grasped in your left hand, pictures flooding into your mind with an awkward jump to them- like grainy black and white effects overlaid on top of your recordings when you wanted to make them a little more old timey. Thereâs pauses and minute scratches, as if the slides on the film feel had been maltreated and thrown in haphazardly, jerkily hopping from one to the other with no thought for smoothing out the transitions.Â
It had been a Friday night, and it had been pouring buckets outside- raining cats and dogs, as someone you had overhead had mentioned on the street, after you had ran past them pell mell, soaked to the bone because of a hilariously badly timed storm. It wasnât often you got a deluge of icy water soaking you for a constant twenty minutes, but hey- when it rains, it pours. You had been settled on the couch for a hour or so, kicking your feet idly as you tried to flip through the channels in hopes of finding something decent to watch- youâd already glanced boredly over your books, and you werenât in a creative move; which had left video games, and you had already beat Deeâs high score, so there wasnât much left to do.Â
That was, until he came crashing out of his room. Dee was clearly excited, clutching what you assumed was a record in a paper sleeve in both hands, hair a mess and suitâs cuffs rolled up to around his elbows, and from the wide eyed look on his face and jittery legs- recently having finished off his tenth cup of coffee, and probably a good chunk of the script heâd been having trouble on for the last week. All the layers of subtlety and irony had to be a little hard to manage, splicing together in horrifying combinations if he wasnât careful. It didnât help much that he was in the middle of a major writerâs block, which absolutely had made him unbearable to be around for the past few days.
Without even sparing a glance at you on the couch, heâd started playing it, setting it onto the supposedly hispter-chic-vintage-trendy gramophone that Bro had left in the corner of the room and setting the clunky thing in motion. It wasnât a tune you were familiar with, but then- the ones that Dee brought home rarely were. Something about it was reminiscent of ballroom dancing though, slow and wistful- the metronome that always clicked time away in even portions on top of the fridge wasnât helping matters either. It was only when he was satisfied that it was set up properly did he look your way again, a maniac grin in place of his missing shades, and that was probably the most unnerving part of it. You hadnât seen Dee get this way since the night he had literally drank the whole two pots of coffee straight out of them, at four am, because he had been on a breakthrough with his writing and sleep be damned.Â
So when he suddenly scooped you up, dragged you over to the empty space that wasnât cluttered by chairs and knickknacks and promptly dropped you onto the floor again, it was to be expected you were more than a little terrified. Your brother was hard to predict normally, much less when he was hyped up on enough caffeine to supply eight Starbucks for a whole week straight. He just laughed at your reaction though, before helping you up, and promptly looking you right in the eyes, and throwing you into a crash course refreshed on waltzing, even though you were quite sure that anyone in their right mind wouldnât classify the crazed flailing about on your part as âdancing.â It was mostly because although Dee knew the moves off by heart, he kept rushing through them and then slowing down, leaving you stumbling and gripping him around his waist to stop from falling down into the tangle of carpet and his lanky as hell legs, before amping the pace right back up and almost knocking your head on top of the lamp that you swore had a hard on for attempting to murder you.
The frenzy of excitement was a little contagious, even though you were still afraid he was going to straight up murder you by accident, maybe sort of throwing you out of the window in some mishap that only Dee on coffee could manage, and after a while he slid into a rhythm that was predictable enough for you not to just cling and hope to god that he didnât accidentally throw you into the fridge full of shitty swords. The record still played, mournful and going at the speed of mostly frozen molasses, the speed of Deeâs dancing a bright contrast.Â
Rain poured down outside, lending a dreary atmosphere, the clattering of teardrops drumming on top of the roof vibrating through your walls and windows, the smell of it leaking into the apartment- fresh and metallic all at once, probably from sliding all over the metal shingles and roofing, sending a peculiar shiver up your spine. You threw yourself as equally into the moment though, matching Deeâs movements best you could, and somewhere along the lines, you had forgotten to realize you were laughing- maybe even enjoying yourself, even if Dee was sort of demented.Â
It wasnât every day a guy got to dance to the point he was almost tripping over his feet and falling down onto the carpet, after all.Â
