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[MUSIC PLAYING] Rock is lit. [MUSIC PLAYING] Hey, there, lit listeners. Welcome to season four of Rock is Lit, the first podcast devoted to rock novels, and also the 2024 American Writing Awards podcast of the year in the categories of music and arts. Rock is lit is a proud member of the Pantheon podcast network. Hey, I'm John Stewart, and you're listening to the Pantheon Network. Rock is lit is hosted, executive produced, and edited by me, Christy Alexander Halberg, author of my own rock novel, Searching for Jenny Page. Big shout out to this season's incredible team, social media intern Keeley Clats, and our three production interns, Major Lagulin, Tyler Elcock, and The Air Lower. This season, we're shaking things up with a fresh new format. Instead of our usual author interviews, we'll be rolling out a weekly reading series, giving you a deeper dive into the world of rock novels through curated readings and literary explorations. To keep up with all things Rock is Lit, follow me on Twitter, Instagram, and YouTube at Christy Halberg, and @RockisLitpodcast on Instagram. For more info, head to ChristyAlexandorHahlberg.com. Got a rock novel you'd like to see featured? Drop me a line at ChristyAlexandorHahlberg@gmail.com. I'd love to hear from you. If you're enjoying the show, please subscribe, leave a comment, and give us a five-star rating on your favorite podcast platform. Wyatt, the Rock is Lit mascot, and I thank you for your support. Coming up, Rock is Lit welcomes Matthew Feinder, author of Ringing in Your Ears. But first, here's Buffalo Tom with taillights fade. [MUSIC PLAYING] Hi, I'm Matthew Feinder, writer from Winston Sale, North Carolina, and I'm happy to be on Rock is Lit to talk a little bit about and read from my novel, Ringing in Your Ears. I've had other work appear in Mid-American Review, Southern Indiana Review, Massachusetts Review, zone 3, Reckon Review, and a number of other places. I spent 10-plus years writing about music for pop matters on an online magazine, but also written for outlets like Our State Magazine and The New York Times. Ringing in Your Ears is my first novel. It was released by Main Street Rag. And I also have a story collection, Gizzards and Hearts forthcoming from ELJ editions in 2025. Ringing in Your Ears is a book that takes place in the early '90s in Massachusetts. I grew up outside Boston in a town called Weymouth. I think part of the reason I wrote this book was to sort of capture when I was growing up and what it was like. But I also made the town fictional. It's called Dorset instead of Weymouth. And I made a few changes here and there. And part I think is the book's about memory. And I had to admit that probably what I remember isn't always exactly what happened. And I like the idea of sort of playing with that memory a little bit of my own while also thinking about the memories of my main characters. The book's about two sisters, Louise, whose nickname is Blue, and Christine. Christine goes missing, and Louise, Blue, is left behind to try to figure it out. Music plays a huge role in this book because really all Louise has to go on from her sister is these cassettes she left behind. Christine is a big music buff. Louise doesn't really know much about it until her sister is gone. And she starts to worry not only about what happened to her sister, but also maybe whether or not she knew anything about her to begin with or if she knew enough about her. And she goes mining through her sister's tapes to try and figure that out. The book talks a lot about the sort of alt-rock of the early '90s. There's plenty of Pearl Jam and plenty of Nirvana, a tape of each of those that features pretty heavily in the book. But the title ringing in your ears comes from a Buffalo Tom song called "Tailights Fade." Buffalo Tom's one of the great Boston rock bands. They were big for me when I was growing up and I remember hearing "Tailights Fade" for the first time. But beyond its sort of emotional connection for me, as I was writing the book late in it, "Tailights Fade" came up. I just sort of put it into a scene and all of a sudden it started finding its way all across the book. You know, the verses of it really ring true with what's happening with Blue. She's searching for what happened to her sister. She's searching to deal with loss and grief. She's searching to deal with who she is. And when you listen to "Tailights Fade," that's kind of what's happening in the verses. Sister, can you hear me now ringing in your ears? There's a story that's much like mine. There's this search for empathy, for grief, for guilt, all this stuff, but then those choruses end every time. Watch the "Tailights Fade" and that voice is just stuck in that moment, in that memory. And there's a lot of that happening, I think, in this novel, as much as it is about what happened. It's also about Blue trying to move on from these things she can't quite move on from. And what it means to be stuck in your past in some ways. And what it means to be sort of grappling with your own memory and whether or not it can sort of help you or haunt you. I think the hardest thing about writing this book was trying to get Blue's voice right, trying to capture the voice of a teenage girl and have it feel true and have it feel like it's hers. She does come to love music through her sister, but she's also a big baseball fan. She's always a little just sort of on the outside of things in her town, looking in. And I wanted to be able to sort of capture that, that sort of precarious position for her, but also not make her feel lost in all that. She's just lost in lots of things, but I wanted her to have a sort of a grounded confidence underneath that. And I hope that that came through. And it was the thing I've worked the hardest on because Blue's a character I think I found in a bad draft of a story early on. And she just always stuck with me. And I always wondered, what is her story? What's going on there? And I hope this book answers that. The main thing about this book is it is Blue's story, but for me it's about a time I fell in love with music. When I was a real young kid, I was all about top 40s, pop hits, I'm pretty sure my first tape was Rick Astley. And I think I listened to it so much I broke it. But somewhere in middle school, Pearl Jam's 10 came out. And that was when I thought, oh man, this is something. This is something I'm going to stick with, and then from there, Nirvana, and a bunch of stuff that I found from my brother's CDs, stuff like Cypress Hill and Run DMC, and then Sabado and Superchunk and all these bands and records I still listen to today. And I really hope that at least under everything else, something about this book is just capturing that time and what it's like to really sort of discover your music for the first time. So I'm going to read from the first chapter of "Ringing in Your Years." As I said, this book is about Christine's disappearance or at least at the start. The book opens at a Little League opening day. Ceremony Blue, our baseball loving narrator, is an umpire in the local Little League and her and her family are there because while opening day ceremony is going on and everyone is there, including the mayor and all the teams, nearby there's a search party out seeing if they can find Christine because she's been missing for too long. So I'm going to read from that opening chapter. And again, it is Dorsey Little League's opening day and Blue and her family are there and they don't necessarily want to be. [THEME MUSIC PLAYING] ♪ I, then, minute was the same ♪ ♪ I'll read, then, without pain ♪ "Ringing in Your Years" chapter one. Parents everywhere lining the dusty path from the parking lot to the Dorsey Little League fields seated in stands along the baselines of field one, framing the outfield fence, bunched in tight groups along the grass nearby, blowing on their coffee, fist dug into their pockets, cinching their shoulders against the mild cold of an early April morning, mumbling about how they were not ready to call this spring just yet. They all knew where their children were. Cue smiles of delight as kids snaked from the lot to the field. One long string of children, organized by team, gloves limp at their side, grinning as they walked by or keeping their heads down shyly. They worked their way to the field and took their place on the baselines, the edge of the infield, the outfield foul lines. I used to be one of those kids. My chin tucked because maybe I fielded more looks than other players since I was the only girl in the league four years ago, which in the cool still morning felt like another world. Now I stood on the pitcher's mound with my parents, closed in on all sides by those kids and their parents. Christine wasn't there. My parents did not know where she was, hadn't for over a week. Missing was the phrase the police used, the word hissed across my skin. I told myself it was silly all this fuss that I knew where my older sister was. Next was the mayor lean on a cheap podium, waiting to address the opening day crowd. He and dad spoke quietly, seriously, leaning in, probably about the old naval base. Dad got in on the ground floor of plans to turn the long closed base into doors its latest, only some would grumble attraction. Houses, golf course, restaurants, it would be its own little town when they were done and dad would be a primary investor. On the other side of the podium, Christine's best friend Kathleen stood with a microphone, chin raised, preparing to sing the national anthem. Her father lurked behind the backstop, his face obscured by the chain link. "He says I can be the best," she said one night in her house, "but that I'm not there yet." "You're the best actress and singer in school," Christine said. "And you're the best swimmer," Kathleen said. "You going to the Olympics?" "That's not the same." "The best in school isn't good enough," Kathleen said, according to dad. As the players settled, dad broke from his huddle with the mayor. "What was that all about?" mom said to dad. "I'll tell you after," he said, "then to me." "You ready for this?" The microphone squealed to life and the mayor's voice filled the field. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "can we all stand together while our very own Kathleen Gateskillsings the national anthem?" Kathleen wavered on the first few notes, then settled in. Acting was a real talent, but she was a charming singer. She had a knack for performance, a charisma. Those first notes sounded true, wounded, like the person, not the performer. Kathleen was manic, fretful, always worried about the next thing, but lost in the song she could sand down those edges. Her voice carried out and away from us. I followed the sound of it, scanning the crowd as she sang. Men held hats to hearts, some parents closed their eyes, mouthing along reverently. Some smiled at Kathleen as she sang through the dawn's early light and into the twilight's last gleaming. They took comfort in it, I think. The song they knew the end to, the flag still there. A lot of people at the field, a good turnout, but it was obvious who was missing. The police chief, the guys from Dorset Fire Station #2, that always came to cheer on the Dorset Fire team. Mothers in the stands sat without fathers next to them. These men weren't here because they were in the woods, lined up. Their own parade got sideways, combing for some sign of Christine. It was hard to shake the image of that line of men, stepping slowly and blindly through the woods. Small flags in hand to mark something, or nothing. Just that morning, what, two hours before opening day? Time cratered in on itself. Police chief McGowan stood in our doorway and asked me to find an item with my sister's scent on it. Mom couldn't bear to enter her room, so I went in and found a hairbrush. They let the dog smell the handle, the bristles, Christine's tangled hair. "When was the last time you saw her again?" he said. I stumbled for him all in on what to say. McGowan's face softened. Blue, we know you're at the party. We know she was there, and we know you were there, too. "Why'd you ask them?" I pinched the edge of the kitchen table and waited. My parents were in the living room while Chief McGowan and I talked. He had isolated me, watched from moving to my eye, shifts in body language. He put his hands up. "Force a habit," he said. I'm sorry, Blue. I don't think you have anything to hide. I didn't correct him. It felt true enough. "But," he said, the party. Gone, then. Away from the table, the kitchen, lost in the house full of voices, the violence of static scuffed music, aerated on bad speakers, the brightness of halls around dark doorways, the unspoken promise in the click of a door closing behind you. Other kids of the party said Christine was fine, normal. "Maybe a bit too much to drink," he said and leaned in. "I don't care about that part, by the way," he sat up. "No one noticed anything out of the ordinary, but maybe you did, or she said something to you." The tile, the sink, the window to the backyard. I brought myself back to the kitchen. She didn't tell me she was taking off, I said. "How do you know that she took off?" That's what it looks like, I said. I mean, this is the kind of thing she would do. Up to now, the search had just been cruisers riding circuits around town, but then an officer patrolling third shift found her car on a street near the reservoir. At first, it did look like she was skipping town. The car's inside was cleaned out of its usual junk, sort of food wrappers, a few old cigarettes in the ashtray. But her sleeve of cassettes sat dutifully on the passenger seat, or she could reach them while driving. It was a change of clothes in the back seat. The trunk was popped open. The cop suspected she pulled her suitcase from it as she took off. Their theory was she ditched the car to take a train. At first, mom and dad were relieved, even annoyed when the cops found the car. With the lighter fluid and matches, the cops found in a plastic bag stuffed under the driver's seat gave them new worries. For me, it was the tapes left behind that coiled in my gut. Was she in trouble? McGowan asked my parents something she might roam from? She wouldn't have anything to run from, mom said. Not a thing, dad added. McGowan said people usually burned cars to get rid of evidence, so maybe Christine was on the run. Maybe something was wrong. He asked if anything else was missing from her room. A lot of clothes, for instance. Just enough to sleep over somewhere, mom said. She was planning on staying the night at Kathleen's. No, Jason's, I thought. Chief McGowan leaned across the kitchen table then, close. He did this often when he was about to announce some new information. We've gone through all the items. He cleared his throat. The evidence we took from Christine's room. He waited for a reaction. We waited for him to continue. We found a diary with plans to leave after graduation. She wanted to move to Seattle, a pretty big move for a kid fresh out of high school, and there was something else, a bank book. Did you know she had her own account? Dad nodded. We opened one for her when she was 10 for college. McGowan shook his head, her own, checking, not savings. By the looks of the ledger, she dropped every nickel she could into that thing. Five bucks deposited there, 10 here, 50 there, and added up. Then she turned down some swimming scholarships to colleges. Printed in the paper in the spring, a list of local students in the awards and scholarships they received as they read for college. Everyone ready to see Christine, all state swimmer on that list. People came up to mom on the street. Did the paper leave Christine out? Approach mom and dad's table at a restaurant? Is she still deciding between offers? People asked me, "Hey, what's your sister doing next year?" "What are you saying?" Mom said. "It looks like she's been planning to leave for a while," he said. "But maybe something happened that made her push up her timeline?" I mean, he said, and he looked us all one by one. Why leave before she even graduated? The question hung in the air, I wondered if I had the answer, or if I should tell him about the other journal, the one I found behind her dresser and wedged under my mattress the day my parents reported her missing. Should I have told him that I didn't know why I hit? That maybe I thought I was protecting her in some way or holding on to her, keeping her close? That it was full of letters she wrote to her friends but never sent. That there was no letter to me. Or should I tell him about the look on her face the last time I saw her right before she left that party? A look like she knew exactly what was about to happen. I silently gave up Christine's brush to the dogs, because if I mentioned that look at the party, I'd have to tell them what she saw me doing, but she must have seen in me then, before she disappeared. Kathleen worked the anthem's booming end, head back, mouth wide open, rockets glaring red, bombs bursting. The crowd tested a few stray claps, hats fell from men's chests. They would cheer wildly as she finished, then again at the mayor's comments, and once more at the first pitch of the first game, their cheers a wave for time to crest on. Most would take their kids home, some might stay to watch the one scheduled game, but for now they offered support, on one level making noises of hope, but underneath knowing every clap, every note in the anthem, every word spoken by the mayor inched us towards the end, towards whatever came next. Past the crowd just over field twos right field fence, a pathlet into the woods. If you broke from the path to the right, it ran down to the reservoir, and if you cross that reservoir and walked long enough, you might run into that search party, scouring the ground for a stray shoe or article of clothing. You might hear the huffing snouts of dogs with the smell of Christine's hair firing off freshly in their brains. If you didn't break from the path, if you kept walking under the webbed bows of leafless trees, you'd come to an opening in the brush on the left that led to my street. Five houses up on the right come to my house. I wanted Kathleen to hold every note until her lungs emptied, until the air from the very bottom of them met Skye, until the walls of her lungs clung together airless. I wanted the game to run 20 extra innings. I wanted the cold April sun to hover, pale and distant for a month. The sun could scorch images from my head, images of that line of people, tired and frustrated at the lush emptiness of familiar woods, their set faces when, and if they ever found out that Christine had left us all behind. A whole town duped by the swimming star team. I told myself all this, again, standing on that hard packed mound. I pulled my umpires mask down over my face, let the padding press my mouth closed, mouth to brain, brain to memory, shut it all down. My mother pinched my thigh to get me to lift the mask off, but I didn't move. The infield dirt held its usual smell dry and pungent like old socks, a comforting replacement for the air in our house, thick with all our exhaustion. The diamond took me back to when I was 12, when I could just play the game without worrying my sister would disappear. It felt like the ground was opening underneath me, like standing to be stared at could make it all atomized, crumble and leave me falling. Relief surprised me, swelling in my gut when Kathleen brought us to the land of the free, home of the brave, not to an end, but to the start of Dorset Little League's 1992 season. I shook the stiffness from my legs, ready to hide inside the game, to settle into fair territory and foul, balls and strikes, outs and runs. Kathleen took a modest bow. I totally gave you the moment she would tell Christine at some point. It was like I could feel you there. She could have cartwheeled for all I cared, because this was for them, all the people that had turned out. It was a big crowd, even with the regulars missing, and they were likely happy to not think about what was happening in the woods nearby, happy to focus on simpler endings, into the parade, the mayor's remarks, the first game, nothing to search for and all that. The microphone squealed again as the mayor adjusted it to meet his height. "Welcome," he said to a new surgical plaza. "What a crowd!" I pulled my chest protector up to my body. Next to me, my mother squeezed my arm. "Take that junk off," she whispered through her teeth. "What is wrong with you?" "Let her be," Dad said, but I let the chest protector fall. It pushed the mast up over my head. Offered a shy smile to the mayor as he looked us over, his own beaming smile coming back at us, fake and blinding, sincere and blinding, whichever. The mayor cleared his throat, his voice rang out, the greeting, an open arm gesture toward us, passed his constituents into the woods. On one side, tree trunks and rock bounced it back in a week echo. Across the parking lot, the Stafford assisted living home soaked his words into its dull stone. The crowd cheered and the gaps the mayor carved out, some yelling short syllables of support. "Blue, hold strong, we're here for you." Clouds moved slowly overhead. The mayor's words rippled out platitudes, rolling my sister's energy, her swimming talent, her positive impact at school, off the tongue slickly. Each line of bullet point in the Christine Cleary file assembled by some office intern. All just noise, another anthem we could all huddle under, until the phrase "our daughter" fell out of his mouth. The towns he met. I hummed behind shut tight lips, the one dumb song about baseball that came to mind, a plea to the coach, how he should put me in, how I'm ready to play. Mom squeezed my elbow, but I kept going, centerfield and all that, stupid, hopeful. The perfect soundtrack is the mayor conjured to Christine everyone could love, and the woods bounced back, her distorted twin. A different Christine, one the mayor couldn't know, lived in the pages of that journal hidden in my room. Journal chief, not diary, she called it a journal. This Christine, 12, stretched out in the backseat of the minivan, knees naughty on her not long narrow legs, face buried in that book, multicolored pen to paper, tongues sneaking out the corner of her mouth, lip faintly curling as she wrote. The family on the way to the Cape for a beach day, driving down Route 3. Christine and me not talking because she was in her journal, and I was reading the latest Matt Christopher novel Dad gave me about boys, but also baseball, so I read it. We were playing again neither of us announced we were playing, which of us, when the highway curve just right and the trees parted, would first see the Sagamore bridge scan into view. Christine didn't look up until she knew it was time. In that journal, she made lists of all her favorite songs with little notes next to them. Rhythm of the night? Sounds like Oz. How will I know? Maybe the happiest sound ever. Wake me up before you go go. I've never seen guys I wanted to dance like before. The Christine who scrawled in loops across line journal paper loved the day-glow brightness of those songs. They were impossible buoyancy. She'd only stop writing if something came on the radio she liked. Turn it up, turn it up, she'd yell bobbing her head along to the right stuff or straight up or even songs on the oldies like Top of the World or Joy to the World. Something about those world songs she wrote makes it sound like there's another one, another world I mean. I haven't seen yet. The off-key charm in her voice lost in the concert of her own mind. Then the road essaying just right, that sharp percussion, sought first, cutting through the rounded pop music. The Sagamore sliding into view right to left all ark and steel as the minivan approached the rotary. The younger sister in the middle seat, not mad she lost, just glad her sister still wanted to play. That Christine dreaming of another world, a bubblegum soundtrack place, but still navigating the one in front of us. Words on the page of that journal thinned out over time, less songs listed. Christine got older, her taste turned dark, obscure, but she never lost those days. Top of the world, she wrote once, sounds so happy, so blissful, but what's the real difference between Karen Carpenter and Kurt Cobain? She's looking down on creation, he's on a plane, both at a distance, no piece where they once were. A sad thought maybe, or the romantic bleakness of youth, but still Christine, you hung onto that carpenter's song, let it ping in your cynical teenage mind. Still tied to that young Christine bopping along to top 40 in the back of the minivan, that version of you not pulled from one day, one trip, but a composite of memory shuffled and flung along the walls of my eyelids to find whenever I close my eyes. That girl, her headphones, her journal, faith in every curling, adolescent loop of ink. The mayor's speech went on, the rising snap of his voice auctioned off your disappearance and ever escalating pronouncements. We're strong, we take care of each other. And the crowd clapped and clenched their jaws to stifle minor whoops, place their bids. These vampiric neighbors who exed off the days of their lives on charity calendars, who sweetened their blood with fundraiser candy. The same who siphoned my father for money in one way or another, who claimed Dorset at its own charity case, bemoaning the Stafford shoes factory decades closed, a mausoleum of the town's wandskahn missing, even as it reopened there across the blacktop as a state-of-the-art assisted living facility. There were write-ups in the paper, a ribbon cutting, good for the economy sounded the chorus. But no one forgot Stafford's shoes. It's leather once a national treasure, the company's own spray-on weather guard revolutionary, at least until Trevor International brought out the place and moved it overseas, leaving behind nothing but an empty factory and those weather guard chemicals dumped into the water supply. No sign it would make anyone sick, tests were done after all, but Dorset water became a fear and then a running joke. People stocked up on spring water and shook their heads as they drove past the shuttered building. Convinced ourselves, we were being crushed under the patent-letter boot of richer towns. Never mind the hospital, the medical offices and jobs all over town, family owned businesses and restaurants named on the backs of their children's uniforms. Forget the luck of Dorset, how much better it fair than textile towns out west or towns cleaved by highway from the city to the Cape. My sister, you, Christine, are Rorschach for the loudest, most bitter voices in this town and their imagined slights. I'll just blades looking for a wet stone who complain they've gone flat and dull only because they see themselves sideways. Did I feel this then? Did all that history sharpen my own edge, coded that morning, Fields dust? Had I passed all these thoughts in later? Anger obliterates time and shakes the tenuous grasp of memory, enough anger and I can fold up all the days between then and now and just step onto that field. The crowd cheered, the mayor turned to us to shake my father's hand, to hug me and my mother, to stand with us. His arm draped over my shoulder for a photo op. For the crowd this was done, kids scattered, two teams to the benches, the rest to their parents and the crowd. Maybe back to their cars to go home, some to the snack bar to get a hot dog. Parents circled up in small pockets of conversation, more than a few of them likely wondering what had been found in the woods. What was found? The words in my head. Not home. Thanks for tuning in, listeners. If you enjoyed the show, please subscribe and leave a rating and comment on GoodPods and Apple Podcast, links in the show notes. Wyatt, the Rock is lit mascot and I really appreciate your support. Until next time, keep rockin' and readin' and gettin' lit. Rock is lit. [Music] [BLANK_AUDIO]
In this episode, Matthew Fiander joins the Rock is Lit Season 4 Reading Series to discuss and read from his debut novel, ‘Ringing in Your Ears’. Set in a Boston suburb during the early ‘90s, the story follows Louise “Blue” Cleary as she navigates the emotional aftermath of her sister Christine’s mysterious death. Already struggling to fit in as a girl barred from playing baseball and an umpire facing hostility from local parents, Blue’s grief sends her on a journey to uncover truths about her sister—and herself. With Christine’s cassette tapes as clues, Blue’s search reveals buried secrets about her family and the dark underbelly of their seemingly idyllic town.
Matthew Fiander’s fiction has appeared in ‘Story Magazine’, ‘Mid-American Review’, ‘Zone 3’, ‘Willow Springs’, ‘The Massachusetts Review’, ‘Southern Indiana Review’, ‘South Carolina Review’, ‘Reckon Review’, and elsewhere. He has also written for ‘The New York Times’, PopMatters, and other outlets. His debut novel, ‘Ringing in Your Ears’, was published by Main Street Rag. Fiander currently lives and works in North Carolina.
MUSIC IN THE EPISODE IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE:
Rock is Lit theme music
[Guitar Instrumental Beat] Sad Rock [Free Use Music] Punch Deck—“I Can’t Stop”
Buffalo Tom “Taillights Fade”
Pearl Jam “Once”
Nirvana “All Apologies”
[Guitar Instrumental Beat] Sad Rock [Free Use Music] Punch Deck—“I Can’t Stop”
Rock is Lit theme music
LINKS:
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