Trust Fund

Stillphoto: the band is arranged in postures of affected relaxation in the lamplit corner of a wellworn room: two guys sitting on the arms of a couch, two guys on the couch itself, and one guy, the singer, on a chair just to the rightside of the couch. We are to believe that this is a pensive moment, either before or after a show, the rock show, and the band members are neither talking nor not talking, gazing in random directions (no two looking in the same direction), and nobody--nobody--looking into the camera itself. Their hair is rather moppish and hangs over half-closed eyes, dropping shadows on pursed lips. Something on the mind? Something wrong? It is hard to tell. This is a natural lighting and shadows dress them all. These boys are in the warm interior of the band. Things have happened and the band waits for other things to likewise happen. May be that they are the best of friends. Something of a bohemian support system. Comfort to one another in casual slack and hyper-sensitivity. Or it may be that, say, the boy on the left arm of the brown couch hates the singer, hates him in the chair he's sitting, hates the singer's slouch and ambiguous ways. Jealousies and judgement and misunderstanding and false assumptions run rampant among the martially disaffected and casual. May be that the lot of them are considered assholes by everybody they know. Or it may be that some or all of these guys are the kind of striking person that you need to be friends with, in the know, amazing people to have as allies. But in this photo, this moment, their audience is with themselves. There is in this world of thriftshop boys new opportunity, something bigger, they would like to believe, than themselves. Tonight and seemingly forever in the corner of this room.