Amid the whirlwind however, the administrator of Anto’s German Support page on Facebook, Franzi Trebert, did an interview with both Anto and I about our writing process. I wanted to post it in the hopes that my fellow writers might find it interesting.

So the obvious question first, where is “Trampled”? The song was in the original release of the EP but the song and video both disappeared. What happenened?

Anto: Well, that’s a really sad question to answer. We found out after we released it that there were too many similarities in the lyrics to another song, so we decided to hold it back out of respect for our work and because we want you to trust in what we create.

Christine: That was such a hard decision. I remember very clearly the nights we worked on those lyrics. Other people also listened to the song once it was recorded but none of us picked up on the similarities. I know these things happen all the time but it was difficult because we are proud of every song we decide to release. So much went into the song and the video, we are very sad to pull them back.

How do the ideas for videos arise? Are they developed while writing the song or after?

Anto: I picture a lot of possible “video scenes” exactly at the same time when I start composing a song because I picture how the atmosphere should be and which kind of emotions it should give. I’m actually very visual while I write. I always try to mix pictures with melodies like I am “watching” a movie while I’m composing.

What was your writing process for “Broken Pieces”? Did you work on the music first and then came up with the lyrics or did you write the words first and then come up with the music?

Anto: The writing process actually really varies. It depends on the song, for example the melody for “Back In Time” was created first and then came the lyrics, but I wrote the music for “Broken Pieces Of Beauty” and “So Fly” after reading words Chris wrote. In both those songs I suddenly felt inspired and the music was born.

Christine: Both “Back in Time” and “Trampled” were songs that Anto started writing first. He had the music and themes and some ideas for lyrics already. He had a clear vision for both songs. The best part of the process for me though is the preparation we do before he goes into the studio. For “Broken Pieces” we sat for a whole day and night going through every song, line by line, word by word, deciding together how it should be sung, if the words are exactly how we want them, rewriting, figuring out the best tone, deconstructing every song down to the syllables. I love it – but Anto doesn’t enjoy it quite as much as I do.

Anto: No, no I love those days. They are beautiful.

Your writing process in general: How is it working? Are both of you writing down different topics and then you bring it together for example?

Anto: Well, it’s really strange how the writing process happens. Sometimes it’s a song that needs to be studied and then written down, other times it’s like a sudden thunder that hits me or Chris, and we just write what inspires us in that moment. Sometimes it comes from me first, sometimes it comes from her first. I will tell you a secret: I used to find my best inspiration in the moment while I am not awake but I’m not sleeping..that moment that we usually can’t remember during the day. Those moments and my dreams make a huge impact in my writing process.

Christine: It’s amazing – he wakes up ‘hearing’ songs in his head! He jokes a lot about having his head in the clouds and that’s why – he’s distracted by the music in his head. The songs that come easiest for us are the ones that start with lyrics. It’s immensely easier for me and he loves letting the words carry him away when they first hit him. “So fly” was a note I wrote him one morning and I think by that night already he’d written such beautiful music for it. I love those moments! And we both love those songs the deepest.

Anto: They always have strong passion because they are born of real moments in our lives.

How long are you working on a song more or less?

Anto: I think that if I could say that in general it’s something like a couple days for each song, but as I told you before it’s definitely not a sure rule.

Christine: With songs like “So Fly” or “I Believe” it can be a matter of hours and then there are other songs that take us months. Quite often the ones that take months don’t make it to the recording studio though.

Who had the idea to write a song for Brandon? Was it Chris? The lyrics are great by the way.

Anto: The idea to write it for Bran came from me because he really inspired me deeply and I found pieces of my younger me through his eyes. Chris expressed my feelings and what I had in my mind in a way that I really couldn’t ask for something better. I just love that song!

Christine: Thank you! That was such a hard song to write because it was so emotional for me. We started by talking for a long time about what we wanted to say. We don’t usually have that conversation because we know each other so deeply – but since he was singing to Brandon, every word needed to come from both of us. I also used a beautiful letter that Anto wrote to Bran on one of his birthdays as inspiration. We really wanted to write a song that would let him feel empowered but also feel our love. I assumed the vocals would be harder, more aggressive, but I think this song is powerful because you can hear the tenderness in Anto’s voice as he’s telling him to fight. That’s a hard balance to find in the tone but Anto did it.

In the songs many instruments (like the violin) are heard. How have they been recorded? Were they in the studio with you so you could “work” with them?

Anto: I couldn’t use a real violinist to record the songs but that’s one of my dreams. I can’t wait to have a whole symphony play my music! For now I compose the melody for the violin and then I use computer software to reproduce its exact sound. (Yeah, the miracles of technology!)

Christine: It’s amazing to hear him compose! He knows exactly what he wants – even if I’m convinced the rest of the world can’t tell the difference between one drum and the next. He’s very exact in the instruments and sounds he uses.

Anto: People’s hearts know the difference in how the music makes them feel.

Were there situations when you didn`t know how to go on with a song? Were you ever stuck at some point?

Anto: I will be honest, with this EP I really didn’t get stuck once! I just had the main picture in my mind and I made it, making it the best I could.

Christine: I did! But I think that’s the difference in writing lyrics and writing music. He hears complete songs in his head so once he’s inspired it’s just a matter of getting what’s in his head out for the rest of us to hear. With lyrics I’m putting together words like puzzle pieces that have to match his metrics and melody and tone and emotion… much harder!

Anto: (laughs) It is easier to write when the lyrics come first but you have to follow where inspiration takes you.

Chris: That’s just another way for you to say you like driving me crazy!

Anto: Maybe…

Some of the songs are about sad topics like someone mistreating you or someone leaving a person, while the others give hope. Were there specific stories behind them (if you want to talk about that..) or were those just topics that were on your mind?

Christine: Every song is very personal to us. We don’t design songs to be commercial or to hit a particular audience. The way I write lyrics is completely different from the way I write fiction for example. Our songs aren’t about characters; they’re about us. We’re always asking each other, “do you feel this deeply?” If either of us answers ‘no’, then we don’t use it.

If you had to describe the EP with only a few words, what would it be?

Anto: I think I would describe it saying, “you can love it or hate it, but it won’t leave you indifferent”.

Christine: “Genuine and intimate.”

Interview by Franzi Trebert  https://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Anto-Official-German-Support/316063205078293

Foggy shadows pass by - disguised as the world,

laughing and unaware that you’re no longer here.

Colour fades beneath the pain -

everything’s stripped away,

                 except the colour of grey.

Not an echo, not a sound,

Life waits in silence while the rain washes over the wounds of the past

I’m walking on the same wet asphalt,

but the drops don’t touch me -

I am the sleepy city who can never be unpolluted.

 -by Anto & Chris

Just go to http://www.antomusic.com   The download is free and it’s beautiful. *___*

As personal manager and press contact for Anto, I am THRILLED to announce that we have a new website. (Between you and me, it makes my job easier! ::happy sigh::) As partner/best friend etc., I am proud. I helped as far as the business end of setting up the domain, making decisions and planning – and of course the writing, but Anto did the dirty work. Never satisfied with using templates, he designed the site and wrote the code, loaded it onto the platform.. and more stuff that I won’t pretend to understand. It’s easy for me to say “we need separate tabs for photos and videos” but he actually knows how to make it happen.

Have a look around and click on some music – it’s all available as free downloads in the ‘store’.  :)

Anto’s cover of Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls

Whatever else is going on, I have the best friend and partner that even my imagination couldn’t conjur before I met him. There are many things about our relationship that people don’t understand – and I couldn’t care less. We work together, we love each other, we cry and laugh and worry together…and sometimes he just plays me music while I find my bliss again…

I’m working on that positivity…and “if the while I think on thee dear friend, all losses are restored and sorrows end.” (William Shakespeare, Sonnet 30)

Music and lyrics written by Antonio Cappiello and Christine Noels
Music video by Anto performing Back in Time. (C) 2011

Special thanks to videographer Ilaria Lattanzi
http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1539463341

Back In Time

I stand over the line -
where you can’t see me
as I walk by your side.
I admit I’d go back in time
There are so many seasons I’d like to live again
But how many times could I walk away
and how many times would you see my cry

(Chorus)
No longer broken
I can’t be undone
Cause I’m feeling stronger
I did what I needed
Found my own road
And I’m sure now
that I did what was right

There are moments I miss
When we were fearless
and dancing in the same dream
Even though I wouldn’t trade what I chose
I sometimes wander back in time in my mind
But our memories are better left alone
‘Cause in the end I choose to walk my own road

(bridge)

Do you ever wish you could go back in time,
feel again your heart beat free – with no regrets
feel again those moments that still live inside
and never have to say good-bye…

Social interaction is a basic need of the human psyche. It helps define our identities and is a critical building block of self-image and self-esteem.  We may hate to admit it, but how we see ourselves is coloured by how we think others see us. The looking-glass self can be blamed on evolution and the survival instinct to be protected by the group, but it still has real implications in today’s society – especially in a society that’s erected on Bluetooth and Skype.

We may ‘connect’ with more people and chat with people all over the world but we’re becoming vampires. We have conversations in under 140 characters and catch up over news feeds and comments. As society evolves devolves, people are losing the ability, maybe even the desire to interact in meaningful ways. Do we really know who are ‘friends’ are online. Do we ask? Do we have dialogues? Do we even respond to their messages or just ‘unsubscribe’ from them?

We’re becoming too insular. The more our worlds expand, the more closed off we are – and when we look into our proverbial mirrors, there’s no reflection staring back at us.

People are becoming invisible. 

We say we want friends, but maybe we just want an audience.

Ask a kid today what he wants to be when he grows up; he says ‘famous’. He wants to be heard and seen. He wants attention because our society is void of it.

I used to consider generosity in terms of material or monetary value. Now I tend to use the word to describe people generous in spirit – giving of their warmth and their heart, giving of their time, their compassion and their positivity. We don’t just look for our own reflections in others, we also give them theirs, and being a reflection is a big responsibility. As human beings we should shoulder that responsibility with grace and kindness.

The more I look at the troubles and strife in this world, the more I think the root cause of it is someone just wanting to be heard, to be noticed. Hidden underneath people’s anger, hostility and apathy, are people who feel invisible.

Respond to others. Step out and embrace them, physically or metaphorically. Give a compliment, be a shoulder to lean on. Smile at the person standing in line that looks tired. Comment back, ‘like’ a picture, give of yourself – and maybe in doing so, you can find your own reflection again, smiling back at you. 

Warning: Mature theme (but not explicit)

********************************************

The music throbbed, its hard bass line vibrating against her body. It was loud enough that she had to raise her voice so the waiter could hear her order.

He was cute. Very cute. Young, thin, his jeans practically draped off his sculpted hipbones. Dark fringe curtained his eyes. Was it dark brown or black? It was hard to tell in the dark light of the restaurant. He tossed his head back to flip it, revealing deep eyes that could only be the darkest brown. They flashed for just a heartbeat before the soft fringe fell forward, blanketing them again teasingly. Good lord he was beautiful. And sexy as hell.

“Is that all?” His voice matched his face perfectly and his lips curved into a brilliant smile when she nodded wordlessly. She bit back the urge to purr back, “Actually, I’ll take an order of you too, piping hot…” She was fairly sure that wasn’t on the menu though.

“Okay then. I’ll be right back with your drinks.”Light hit the silver lip rings that punctuated either side of his smile as he spoke. They framed his full lips, making sure  attention was paid.

She’d never kissed anyone with lip rings before. She took one last lingering look at the boy’s mouth before he turned to go place their order. She could almost feel the cold slivers of metal against the heat of his soft lips. What would he taste like?

“Maybe I should’ve ordered the pasta instead of the salad.” The whiney voice of her dinner companion limped across the table and brought her smashing back down to reality. She touched her face with the back of her hand and hoped she wasn’t as flushed as she felt. Her eyes flew to the swinging doors again as the waiter came back out, smiling at the people he passed. He was absolutely mesmerizing. “What do you think? Have you had the Caesar salad here?”

“Um, no.” She coughed and took a sip of water to soothe the dry catch in her throat. Her eyes followed him as he waited on another table.

What would his body look like under those clothes? Definitely muscled – but lean like a swimmer. Nothing buff. He was too thin. Too lithe. He was perfect and she knew by the way his t-shirt hung from his chest muscles that his abdomen would be hard with tight symmetrical lines dipping between each curve of his slight six-pack.

“Of course they say Caesar salad has as much fat in it as a normal entrée. All the cheese and dressing…are you alright?”

She started at the question, her eyes flying back across her own table.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re flushed.”

“I’m fine. I think I just need to sprinkle some water on my face.” She rose quickly, the vibrations of her own body now matching the music. She tried to be calm, tried not to betray the lust that was coursing through her. “I’ll be right back.” She walked quickly, heading towards the bathroom. Her eyes sought him out again and she took a longer route than was necessary just to pass by him. She sniffed hard, trying to catch the scent of his cologne. When he saw her, he smiled.

A flash of lightning coursed through her and she could feel an actual wave of heat heating her from the inside. Dear god she wanted him. She wanted to touch him and make love to him. She wanted to see those lips parted in a moan. Her breathing picked up and she had to gulp a few breaths, just to keep from panting. The bathroom air didn’t help. It was hot from the heat of the hand dryers. There were two teenage girls standing in front of the mirror, adding make-up to their already overdone eyes.

“Did you see him? Shannon says he’s in her chemistry class. Says he’s really nice.”

“Oh my God, he is so fucking hot. I am ordering dessert tonight just so he has to come to our table again.”

They laughed and ran fingers under their eyes, perfecting their intentionally smudged black eyeliner. They were already gorgeous. They didn’t need to try any harder. With their skinny, flawless bodies and boobs up to their chins, they were far too sexy for their age.

“Oh, sorry.” One of them said when they saw her. They slid her purses down the counter to make room although she felt as if she should join in their conversation.

Turning on the tap, she slid her fingertips through the stream of cold water. It felt good on her skin and she breathed deeply, a memory of the way the waiter’s shirt clung to his sides in ripples. She shook her head once and then glanced up to check her own make-up. Her deep breath turned into a gasp – an audible gasp of shock that echoed in the small overheated washroom.

“Are you okay lady?”

It was one of the girls but she couldn’t bear to look at them again. Not now. Especially not now. She couldn’t even force herself to glance at their young perfection. She just nodded her head and stared at the mirror.

She stared at the middle-aged woman in the mirror.

With crows feet around the tired eyes and wrinkles creasing her features like a used map, she stared back at herself and remembered that she wasn’t young anymore. Gray roots showed at her temples and outdated glasses that she kept meaning to replace made her look even more ancient. There was a hint of a double chin and she didn’t dare look down farther than that. She knew it got worse. Sagging breasts and a roll of fat around her middle that had been there since the last time she was pregnant. God lord, her youngest was in University. Her roll of fat was older than that god damned waiter!

Suddenly she wanted to cry. Or scream. Or just curl up in a ball. When had this happened? When did she get so old? She still felt like a girl. In her mind she was as young as those girls that were standing now silent beside her. She still had the same yearnings, the same desires as them…nothing had changed in her mind.

The image in the mirror had changed though. She wasn’t ever going to sleep with someone like that boy again. She’d never again touch a body like his or make love with someone that young and beautiful… Her hands cupped her sagging breasts and she watched in the mirror as they squeezed with anger.

“Damn you!” Tears fell down her face. She screamed at the old woman, choked and sobbed at the unfairness of losing herself. “Damn you!”

Other than the obvious altruistic powers like eradicating diseases or orchestrating world peace, I’d wish for the power to manipulate time – at least that’s always been my quick default response.

I may have to rethink that answer.

“The path Fredric took through the tents brought Eragon into close contact with more minds than he had ever touched before. Hundreds of thoughts, images, and sensations pressed against his consciousness. Despite his effort to keep them at a distance, he could not help absorbing random details of people’s lives. Some revelations he found shocking, some meaningless, others touching or, conversely, disgusting, and many embarrassing. A few people perceived the world so differently, their minds leaped out at him on account of that very difference. How easy it is to view these men as nothing more than objects that I and and a few others can manipulate at will. Yet they each possess hopes and dreams, potential for what they might achieve and memories of what they have already accomplished. And they all feel pain.” – Christopher Paolini

To read minds….maybe if everyone possesed such a superpower we’d already live in a world free of war and needless suffering. Imagine what the world would be like if we could all see through each other’s eyes, hearts and scars. If we could look at a person and feel their insecurities and fears… and if they looked at us and felt ours… just imagine.

**********************

As the jolt of cocaine hit his bloodstream, Nick lay back against the piece of driftwood and let the anxiety and hatred wash out of him. A lulling euphoria replaced the anger, allowing him to breathe.

He didn’t even mind that he was there with them. Among them. The school uniforms they wore were like badges to him. Signs that they belonged to the army of hell he’d been enrolled in. Like swastikas, the school crests equalled the same horror in his eyes. He endured the pain, the torture, the sting of not belonging – and he hated them for it. But watching them now, through a veil of white powder, they didn’t seem too frightening. Drunken and drugged, they were dancing and fucking their way into a long weekend. Music blared in the small clearing a mile from the school. He couldn’t stand them but this is where he knew he could score some coke. And he loved cocaine.

The music rose in the night air and Nick glanced over at the girl. Megan Darrows. Blond, popular, and she had a smile that seemed nicer than the rest of them. He could see the pink polish on her fingertips as she cranked the volume on the ghetto blaster and he felt his dick stiffen slightly. She was everything girls should be. Soft and pink and mysterious. Nirvana blared out of the speakers and she started to dance. She bounced up and down and he loved how free she was. She had no inhibitions, no fear.

Flashes of skin almost distracted him from realizing that she was looking at him. Staring at him and crooking one of her pretty painted fingers, asking him to join her. He was beside her before he thought about it. Blaming it on the coke, he danced. He jumped up and down, swung his head, and danced. Out of breath and borrowing the girl’s freedom, he let himself go for the first time in his life. There was no sadness. No anger. No fury. Just laughter as the girl giggled.

Later, when her mouth touched his, he didn’t know how to respond. His hand reached for more coke and after snorting more, he turned back to face her. She was beautiful. Seeing her this close as they lay side by side on the wet grass, he examined everything. He’d never been this close to a girl before. The thick black eyelashes, the lipstick and powder – he didn’t understand it but had vivid recollections of how his mother looked when she put on her ‘face’. It was something feminine and good. And it made him hard.

A second wave of euphoria hit him and he grabbed at her. The girl’s pink mouth showed him what to do. She was everywhere. Her hands coached him, leading him into a world he’d only heard about in other boys’ whisperings. When she pulled him into her, Nick’s mind rolled back in his head. Hot and wet, she was everything he’d imagined when he jerked off in the middle of the night. And she wanted him. Pulling at him, begging him for more, opening herself up to him, she reached out and invited him into her. The feeling of being needed was headier than the buzz from the coke.

She was his world for days. He thought about her every moment. He was so wrapped up in the memory of what they’d done, that he forgot to get high. And when the day came for the boys school to meet up with the girl’s school in the hidden clearing again, he was numb with what he concluded was anticipation. He’d never looked forward to anything before. But now there was Megan. And she wanted him.

The clearing was the same but somehow felt more alive this time. Looking around, he hunted for the soft, pink, blond girl whose taste he still held on to. When the first hint of a Nirvana tune echoed over the teenage clamour, his head turned towards the ghetto blaster. There she was. He could hear the glee in her voice as she told someone how much she loved this song and his heart opened wide. Heading towards her, every footstep felt like it would lift him into the air.

Until he saw her kiss someone else. Just a few feet from her, he was close enough to smell her when she reached up and kissed another guy. She hadn’t even seen him. Hadn’t been looking for him. Hadn’t likely remembered him. Backing away, Nick’s eyes fell on the school crest on the guy’s jacket. Fury blinded him and he ran back towards the school that he hated. Branches hit him in the face as he barrelled through the woods, back to the only place he could go. When he reached the cold darkness of his dorm room, he crawled into bed without taking off his clothes or wiping the dirt or tears from his face.

He should’ve known she didn’t need him. Didn’t love him. He had no one and he felt stupid for believing that would change. Sobbing for almost an hour, he lay in the same spot, without moving for the rest of the night. And when daylight filled the room and warning bell sounded, he got up and had a shower. He put on his uniform, straightened his tie in the mirror and wiped the coke from the edge of his nose.

*********************************************

So I started going through some of my friend requests – I didn’t make it all the way through but I’ve been making good progress. There are so many bands out there looking for an audience – and I love it.

A few years ago I read an article (and I wish I’d clipped it and saved it) about how all the world’s media was in the hands of about 6 powerful people. Companies are owned by corporations, owned by conglomerates…who, when it comes down to it, are steered by a handful of people. Looking ahead the prospects for our media/news/entertainment choices were grim – and god help us if these people had a political agenda.

But out of this corporate version of an unimaginative hell, rose the indie movement. Just when it looked like the Grecian Formula, tie wearing unspired types were going to rule art by the formulaic laws of focus groups and politically correct blandness, something amazing happened.

Artists stood up and created their own market.

Artists are now in charge of their futures more than ever. Someone like Christopher Paolini, one of the best selling authors of the past couple years, got his start by self-publishing and doing his own book-tour and promotion. Diana Gabaldon first posted her writing on the internet and developed a devoted fanbase. Sites like MySpace and YouTube allow bands to be heard, writers to get their words read and artists to showcase their work.

As the big studios and publishing houses shed off the middle market sellers to focus all their promotional dollars on the sure bets, little indie niches were synergistically rewriting the future. Fans don’t need to settle for the corporate brand of vanilla, in fact they can discover the style and influence of art that suits them and then support it without it being compromised by a corporate censor.

While the ‘big guys’ still exist, they’re whining about the fragmented markets. Music moguls complain about genres being too individualized and publishing houses lose sleep over the gambles they make on single writers. (Stephenie Meyer wrote one in every six books sold last year.) They complain and take more antacids – and ironically buy up the social networking companies.

We’re a capitalist society. I don’t think that’s a bad thing but I don’t like the idea of it sliding from capitalism to dictatorship. If things continue as they are, we have the value of both worlds. Artists can decide for themselves if they want to remain independent and sell their vision without censorship – or they can choose to put their career in the hands of a bigger entity.

So when I see bands sending through friend requests, I take the time to listen to their music. It’s not always for me but I at least give it a chance and take a look at each profile. The fact that these artists are taking the power into their own hands and making something happen for themselves should be rewarded.

I hate my looks, curse my weaknesses, wish I could’ve won a bit more in the DNA lottery… I am haunted by what I’ve lost and what I couldn’t reach. I get so caught up in wishing I could’ve been born with more, that I forget that I was born with so much.

I wasn’t born in a place where water is scarce, or where bullets fly over my head on a daily basis. The fact that I’m a woman doesn’t condemn me to a life without rights, where I am someone else’s property. My child has food. My child has dreams. My child is able to be a child, not a soldier.

Sometimes it’s hard to look at your own life with perspective but flip on the news and see what life could’ve been like – what it IS like for someone else – through no choices of their own. If you feel safe in this moment, if you feel loved, if you have food and a roof, then maybe you’re luckier than you think.