The Summer of Night Vale Presents, Part 2

Hey, y'all, it is Jeffrey Kraner speaking to you from the year 2025.

And did you know that Welcome to Night Vale is back out on tour?

We are.

We're going to be up in the northeast in the Boston, New York City area, going all the way over to the upper Midwest in Minnesota.

That's in July.

You kind of draw a line through there and you'll kind of see the towns we'll be hitting.

We'll also be doing Philly down to Florida in September.

And we'll be going from Austin all the way up through the middle of the country into Toronto, Canada in October.

And then we'll be doing the west coast plus the southwest plus Colorado in January of 2026.

You can find all of the show dates at welcome to nightvale.com/slash live.

Listen, this brand new live show is so much fun.

It is called Murder Night in Blood Forest, and it stars Cecil Baldwin, of course, Symphony Sanders, me, and live original music by Disparition, and who knows what other special guests may come along for the ride.

These tours are always so much fun, and they are for you, the diehard fan, and you, the Night Vale new kid alike.

So, feel comfortable bringing your family, your partner, your co-workers, your cat, whatever.

They don't got to know what a night veil is to like the show.

Tickets to all of these live shows are on sale now at welcometonightvelle.com/slash live.

Don't let time slip away and miss us when we are in your town because otherwise we will all be sad.

Get your tickets to our live U.S.

plus Toronto tours right now at welcometonightveld.com/slash live.

And hey, see you soon.

Hi, Jeffrey Kraner here.

In your mind.

Welcome back to the Summer of Night Vale Presents, a celebration and sampling of some podcasts we loved so much, we made a podcast network.

Before we get started, you should know that some of the material in this particular episode is not for kids.

This week we'll be listening to Pounded in the Butt by My Own Podcast and It Makes a Sound.

Two totally different and unique fiction podcasts.

But I also wanted to tell you you about my other podcast, the one that is not welcome to Night Vale.

It is called Within the Wires.

Each season, my co-writer Janina Mathewson and I tell a story entirely from a single set of found audio.

In season one, we had a prison break/slash romance told entirely through relaxation tapes.

Season two, the mystery of a missing woman told through a decade's worth of museum audio guides.

And season three, coming this September, will be a political thriller told through dictaphone recordings to a secretary.

Here's a short clip from season two, featuring the inimitable Rima Te Wiata.

Painting 101, Still Life with Tomato Plant and Sword by Claudia Artiano, Oil on Canvas, 1962.

It is one of her most discussed and debated works and is one of the collection of paintings that shifted her career from successful artist to celebrity.

As much a celebrity as a painter can be while still alive, of course.

The painting sold at Sotheby's in 1969 for nearly £1 million

and is on loan to this exhibit.

Many critics admire the gentle and crafty hand at work here.

Notice the thin strokes of orange and pink creating the sunny glare on the tomata.

Atiano nearly exposes the texture of the canvas with such thin passes of the brush.

It looks almost like watercolours rather than oil, and it is shallower than the rest of her painting.

Lean closely to the left side to see this remarkable detail.

What is exposed?

What is vulnerable?

You'll notice that the titular sword is not visible here,

but just past the trellis and the tomato plant you can see a nearly empty garden.

The grass is mangy

and uneven.

But what appears as a large blotch of unusable dirt is actually a mound.

The sword of this work's title has been buried in the garden.

This painting premiered at the Berkshire Museum where Atiano was living at the time as a resident artist in the former United States.

Atiano's home now is in Cornwall.

It's a large house somewhere along the road to disrepair.

Sitting alone on an island some distance from the the mainland.

My first few visits to Cornwall, Claudia and I had tea at a cafe called Joyeuse, named for Charmagnes Sord.

We were served sandwiches and scones and in the back there was a small garden with sparse grass and a small insipid vegetable plot.

The tomato plant was the only thing that grew well there, but often the squirrels stole them just as they reached maturity.

The owner of Joyeuse, a petite-figured man named Jennifer, who wore square-rimmed glasses and wool leggings, hung his handmade replica of the epinomous sword just above the doorway to the garden area in the back.

He had used a wood base and aluminium veneer.

It was pulled slightly from the sheath, which was emblazoned with large jewels that hardly seemed real at all, but were stunning and smart in their own right.

In this painting, look closely at the upturned soil in the garden.

Imagine Chalmagnia's sword.

Imagine it now buried in the garden in this painting.

Examine the uninspired tomato vines,

their drooping and bare stalks, fully revealed,

but impossibly beautiful in Atieno's rendition.

How will you be remembered?

Atiano does not expect viewers to know about the now now defunct Joyas Cafe in Cornwall in Western Europa, but she certainly expects viewers to understand that if the title says there is a sword in the painting, then there is a sword in the painting and it is your job to find it.

The garden at Joyers and even the sword to which it refers were clear influences on Atiano's seminal masterpiece.

And the longer I have looked at this painting, the more I wonder if the sword is buried in the ground, an on-the-line tribute to our post-reckoning international order of peace, or perhaps,

knowing Ateano's wry sense of humour and love of subtle symbolic critiques, perhaps the sword has been dug up.

Look closely at the mound of dirt.

The arc of the mound could suggest a burial of weaponry.

But in the oblong black patch toward the top, I see the suggestion of a hole rather than a heap.

The sword is missing.

And Attiano does not know where it is.

Perhaps the viewer themselves holds it.

Do you?

Do you hold the sword?

Painting one oh two, Market Place, Summer Afternoon, 1965.

A painting of a crowded food market.

Notice the almost boneless limbs on the merchants.

The apple cart vendor in the lower right has an arched elbow that never quite reaches a point.

Her knees are nearly S-shaped.

You can see the ocean over the tents in the background.

Many books refer to this scene as St.

Ives.

This is likely Plymouth.

I recognise that view from my brief time living near near there.

But perhaps I'm wrong.

This is why we make art.

To help us remember more beautifully, not more clearly.

Painting 103.

Stapler, 1968.

It is a painting of a black swing-line stapler on a black background.

The audacity of this painting irritated many older artists, as it looks like a poorly lit photo in an office supply catalogue.

Look closely at the black of the stapler and the black of the background.

Is all darkness the same?

How absent is light

in the absence of light?

Atieno on the surface is displaying her technical skills.

It is photographic quality in every way.

It looks

like almost an advertisement here on the Ulster Museum wall.

Perhaps Atiena was making a commentary on the commentary of the pop-out movement,

but most likely she's simply showing off her technique.

She was quite prolific in her art, and they're all good works, as you can see here in Belfast.

But in her mind,

mastery of form was mastery of art.

But in my mind, an artist can always do more.

In Cornwall, there were cliffs overlooking the sea.

At high tide, I would take off my clothes and dive the ten meters drop.

I encouraged Claudia to dive with me, but she couldn't do it.

These beautiful cliffs.

along an endless, cool sea.

A scene she could paint and did,

but not one she could truly explore.

For fear of what?

Not heights.

She did not flinch at bending over the ledge, not water either.

She swam regularly when she could walk down to the shore.

I always wanted her to jump,

to plunge,

to risk pain or embarrassment, to feel bodily the glory of this rare nature, to paint something truly epic, busy, tall, complex, masterful.

To make more astonishing what was already astonishing, to free fall into the vastness that contains both wilderness and tranquility.

But when eyes were on Claudia, she demurred.

She believed in frightful conspiracies and intimidated power brokers of the new society.

But when the world looked at her for commentary, she sometimes just wanted to paint staplers.

There has been so much talk about Atiano recently, so much speculation.

People say she's disappeared.

This seems ridiculous to me.

Artists are reclusive sometimes.

We need to be.

The world is our inspiration, sure, but also our most dangerous distraction.

It is more likely her so-called disappearance is not a disappearance at all, but an absence, a hiatus, a time spent away from the pressures of celebrity, to rethink her artistry.

Look closely at the swing line logo in the painting.

What does it mean to be convinced to buy something?

To listen to the full season, go to withinthewires.com or search for the show in your favorite podcast app.

Now,

let us talk about Pounded in the Butt by My Own Podcast, our new fiction podcast by Dr.

Chuck Tingle.

If you've been on the internet before, you've probably heard of Chuck Tingle, his stories like I'm Gay for My Living Billionaire Jet Plane, and Seduced by Dr.

Bigfoot Attorney at Large, and This American Butt, hosted by Ira Ass, have entertained and aroused readers across the world.

Pounded in the Butt by My Own Podcast features celebrity guests performing these amazing Tinglers and is hosted by Chuck Tingle himself.

This is truly the podcast about love that you never knew you needed, but you did.

In this excerpt, we're going to hear my brother, my brother, and me's Justin McElroy read from Slammed in the Butt by My Handsome Laundry Detergent Pod.

The TV's on, there's not much talking

between two buckaroos

Good buttons and plaid, that's the big game playing

But one of us must choose

Falls in the end zone And we're high

as the old zone Our kisses sign the deal

We're proving love is real

Love is real.

We're proving love is real.

Love is real.

Proving love is real.

Greetings, Buckaroos.

This is Dr.

Chuck Tingle, world's greatest author.

As man name of Chuck, I get to talking on love all the dang time.

But maybe it would be nice to spend a moment and a half, or maybe two moments and a half, talking on what the heck it means for love to be real.

Well, now I will tell you this way.

Did you know that every time you trot to the store, just minding your own dang business, you have made a whole new universe?

This is because there is a version of time where you trot to the store, and one where you stay home.

But there are all kinds of ways to trot to the store.

One way would be a modern trot, maybe two steps forward and then clap and then a playful nod, and then slide to the left and then bow and repeat until you get to the store or you could do a traditional trot like classic way of three steps forward clap one time for every way you are thankful and then one step back and then repeat point is you are making a lot of dang choices all the time and each choice is creating its own timeline whoa bud there there are timelines where eyes are illegal there are timelines where oceans are named after famous butts There is even a timeline where a man name of Channing Tatum is not the world's most handsome actor.

He is the world's most handsome male man.

There are so many different layers of reality.

They all have different rules that always change, like a game of baseball with a butt who is not very good, and he says he gets another swing.

Yeah, right, buddy, you only get three, and then you gotta get out of here.

So what the heck happens to you on these other timelines?

Is this really you over in another world?

Only a little bit, but don't be scared.

That's just your reverse twin.

Sometimes they are nice, but sometimes they come here and try to steal your bones.

In recent time, I have learned I have a reverse twin named of Justin McElroy.

And so far he has not tried to steal my bones.

I'm still worried.

I will admit I have locked my windows up tight.

I don't want any reverse twins sneaking in and turning me into a boneless man.

But it is important to understand your reverse twin twin and learn that they can be very kind.

So, this episode is part of the reverse twin friendship program, and that is very important.

I hope most buckaroos can reach out to their reverse twins in this way and say, Hey, I heard you sound like me, buddy.

Maybe, maybe let's read books together and get hard in a normal way.

Now, please enjoy my reverse twin from a distant reality, name of Justin McElroy, reading Slammed in the Butt by my handsome laundry detergent pod.

Hello, my name is Justin McElroy.

I'll be reading today's selection, Slammed in the Butt by My Handsome Laundry Detergent Pod, to my wife, Sidney, who's here.

Say hello, Sidney.

Hi.

Hi.

She has not heard this book before, nor have I.

So I just wanted to share it with her.

Because that's what married couples do.

That's what I read.

This is Slammed in the Butt by my handsome laundry detergent pod by chuck tingle

if there's one thing that i can't stand it's being late and when you're sitting behind the wheel of a car as fast as this one you've really got no excuse i'm flying through the beautiful arizona desert the open roads sprawling out before me as far as the eye can see and yet i don't have any time to appreciate this gorgeous landscape for myself Normally, this little stretch of highway would be covered in exotic cars on their way to the big show.

And if I would have made this drive a little earlier in the day, that would have been the case.

Unfortunately, I got caught up in Los Angeles and ended up stuck behind a four-lane pileup, sitting for hours while the police cleared a path.

By the time I finally got out of there, I knew that I'd probably not make it to the show before check-in time, but I still have to try.

Plenty of people would see me hauling through the desert like this and say that it's not worth it, complain the danger of my incredible speed is way too high when compared to the brief enjoyment I'll get from showing off my ride to other auto fans.

While I completely understand this complaint with the logical side of my brain, the emotional side thinks otherwise.

These people have never experienced the thrill of having their hard work and sweat put on display, the hood popped open while men and women stroll by to gaze lovingly inside.

Folks who come to these auto shows know their stuff.

And while the parts I've chosen may seem average to some random citizen pulled off the street, a real car lover will know just how much care I've put into my selections.

Not some loser either, which I'd imagine is the first thing one might think when they realize just how much time I put into my car.

This is an extension of lacking self-esteem.

This is an artistic expression of myself.

My car is my canvas, and right now that canvas is pushing 100 miles per hour.

So this is already pretty intense stuff.

Obviously, my ride can go much faster than this if I want it to, but the fact that the auto show has rolled into town for for the weekend means the highway patrol is out in full force.

Sure, I'd still get a ticket for going 100, but I can only imagine what they'd do to me if I stacked another 80 miles of an hour on top of that.

Still, the clock is ticking.

I push my foot down onto the gas pedal even farther, barely crossing over the threshold into triple digits as I scan the horizon for any sign of life.

Eventually, I spot the bright shiny glint of various parked autos coming into view, cresting over the horizon like the parking lot of my dreams.

I slowed down a bit and then glance at the dashboard clock, breathing a sigh of relief as I realize that I've made it on time for check-in.

Of course, the desert is so vast out here it takes forever to actually arrive, even though I've already seen my destination.

Once I get there, I pull my car up to the check-in booth and climb out, strolling confidently over to the car show officials.

Hey, I say, offering my hand for a firm handshake.

I'm Greg Henderson.

I'm just checking my car in for the show.

My registration number is 64720.

I kind of give myself kind of a burly.

I feel like Greg Henderson's kind of a burly dude.

Into cars, yeah.

The man standing before me with a clipboard in his hand doesn't meet my gaze as I speak to him.

Instead, staring past me with an expression of confused disappointment, I finally turn around to see what's so interesting.

And then I swiftly realize that my vehicle is currently far from show condition.

Oh god, I blurt, seeing now the once beautiful, cherry red finish has been covered and caked with mud.

The entire thing is splattered from top to bottom thanks to my excessive speeding, with dirt and dust creeping into every nook and cranny of the once beautifully immaculate vehicle.

Well, I'll check you in because you got all your paperwork here and you made the cutoff time, the man with the clipboard announces.

But you're gonna want to get that thing washed off before the show starts in two hours.

I nod frantically.

Thank you.

I'll get this cleaned up right away.

The man with a clipboard nods towards a nearby hose.

Pull up over there and give yourself a washdown.

Without another word, I climb back into my car and drive it over to the water station.

By now, everyone else has spruced up their rise and the section is completely empty.

But it quickly becomes apparent that most of the supplies have been thoroughly raided

excuse me where's the soap i call out to a woman strolling by she shrugs and shakes her head clearly confused by my question i realize now that i'll have little to work with but i'm committed to scrubbing as long as it takes i turn on the faucet and start to spray down my vehicle but to my horror the dirt and mud only seems to cake on even more.

Instead of running down the side of my car and dripping onto the ground, these minerals swirl together in a mess of brown and tan, only adding to the state of disorder.

Hey!

Someone calls out behind me, causing me to turn off the faucet and spin around.

It's weird he didn't know who it was with such a distinctive voice.

It's very clearly the same old man.

Yeah.

The man with the clipboard is standing with a look of great concern on his face.

He motions for me to approach, and I do as instructed, walking up close as the man lowers his voice.

I'm not supposed to help out anyone here here because the show is technically a competition, but you seem like a good guy, he offers.

You're not gonna get your car clean here, but if you head up the road to the hills a bit, you'll find a secret car wash.

Honestly, it's the best in the state.

You got two hours before the show starts, so that's plenty of time.

A secret car wash, Sydney.

A secret car wash?

The best in the state.

The best secret car wash in the state.

I stare back at the man with the clipboard in complete shock, blown away by his kindness.

Thank you so much, I gush, and then hurry over to my car and jump in.

I start the thing up and take off where the man had motioned for, a single lane road that winds up the nearby hills.

It's been 20 minutes or so, and uh still no sign of this mysterious car wash.

I don't want to allow the creeping dread into my mind, but with every passing moment I begin to wonder even more if this whole thing has been some kind of elaborate prank, a way to punish the late guy and teach him a lesson about car show etiquette.

So important.

Suddenly, however, my prayers are answered as my vehicle rounds a sharp corner to reveal a small, inconspicuous car wash.

I pull in and slow down to a crawl, scanning the building for any signs of life.

I roll down my window.

Hello?

I call out.

Is anyone here?

I need an emergency wash.

No response.

I pull around at the back of the structure and find an entrance for the wash, but it appears the thing just isn't even turned on.

Just my luck.

Hey there!

a voice suddenly rings out from out of nowhere comes a strangely dressed man wrapped from head to toe in a long dark coat that cannot possibly be comfortable in this desert heat atop his head is a wide-brimmed hat that covers most of his face which is even further obscured by a pair of dark sunglasses

i heard you know how to get things clean i tell the strange man The figure nods.

I sure do.

You down at the car show today?

I nod.

Well then, the man continues, let's get you sparkling, shall we?

The figure saunters over to the side of the car wash structure and flips a few switches, causing the old building to immediately come roaring to life.

Suddenly, there are all kinds of mops rolling and suds pumping, churning beautifully together as they beckon my car forward.

Should I just pull in?

I question.

The mysterious man nods.

Just drive on through and I'll give you a hand wash for details on the other end.

Thank you so much, I gush.

How much do I owe you?

The figure stands in silence for a moment as if mulling something over.

Finally, he speaks.

For you, free, he tells me.

Oh, no, I offer, shaking my head in protest.

I can't.

I don't get a lot of visitors, continues the cloaked figure.

It's just nice to have some company.

That's even more reason to pay you, I counter.

You gotta keep this place open.

You're a lifesaver.

I take a wad of cash out of my wallet and thrust it towards the man, who pushes it away.

No, thank you.

He refuses.

I finally give up and offer a final odd of acceptance before slowly pulling up to the edge of the car wash.

I carefully drive up onto the conveyor belt and before I know it, my car is being hosed down by a variety by a variety of powerful cleaning chemicals.

By the time I roll out on the other side, it's looking absolutely incredible.

I pull over and climb out of my car, checking for myself.

Wow, you don't mess around here, I gosh.

This looks amazing.

You ain't seen nothing yet, the mysterious figure tells me.

Immediately, the cloaked man kneels down next to the wheels and begins to scrub away at the hubcaps with his hands.

I look on in shock as he works, not only impressed by his diligence, but confused by the fact that it appears this man is using no soap other than the chemicals that appear to be emanating from within his hands.

Come to think of it, the hands themselves are rather strange.

Not the shade of any earthly skin tones, but bright white with swirls of red and blue.

The figure notices me looking and suddenly pulls his hands back into his coat, clearly frightened.

Oh, no, I blurt.

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare.

I'll finish,

the mysterious figure announces, standing up again and stepping back.

Obviously, he's not being completely forthcoming at the moment.

After all, only one of the four hubcaps has been scrubbed down.

It's okay, I tell him.

Whatever secret you're hiding, I don't care.

I can see the man's body language soften a bit, even under all those clothing layers.

Your passion is incredible, I continue.

I can tell that you love to clean, and I admire that.

I don't know much about you, but I do know your talent is very, very impressive.

You don't have to hide from me.

Slowly, carefully, the mysterious figure begins to slip out of his clothes to reveal his muscular body.

I recognize recognize him immediately, a massive, sentient pod of laundry detergent in the swirling primary colors of blue and red.

That must feel a lot better than wearing a huge coat in the hot sun, I laugh.

The living laundry pod shakes

the living laundry pod shakes head.

It says shakes head, but I'm sure that's not right.

The living laundry pod shakes his head from side to side, chuckling along with me.

You have no idea.

What are you hiding from?

I continue.

You're an incredible cleaner.

You should be working at some big city car wash, not out here in the middle of nowhere.

Hell, why stop at cars?

You were made for laundry.

Why not open a laundromat?

The detergent pod takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

You have no idea, do you?

No idea about what?

I question, utterly confused.

My people,

laundry pods.

The sentient cleaning tool says, we're in great danger.

People have been eating us left and right.

There's not many left.

What?

I blurt.

Eating you?

The laundry pod nods.

Seriously?

I continue, struggling to wrap my head around this.

Why?

The laundry pod shrugs.

I don't know.

I wish I could make sense of it, but I can't.

Anyway, since all that started, I was forced to go into hiding.

I'm suddenly overwhelmed with sorrow, anger, and frustration on behalf of this beautiful red and blue pod.

He was made to be a cleaner, and now he's being forced into a world gone mad.

His entire life, entire purpose has been turned upside down.

At the same time, I can't help but be impressed by his commitment to his craft.

In the face of all this adversity, the detergent pod is still out here doing what he loves and doing it well.

To be honest, it's actually quite attractive.

I won't tell anyone you're up here, I assure him.

And I'm certainly not going to eat you.

What's your name?

Tyne Ulbra, the detergent pod offers.

It's nice to meet you.

I'm Greg.

I inform him.

The sentient cleaning tool quickly gets back to work on the next hubcap, crouching down in front of it and rubbing his hands vigorously across the shiny metallic surface.

The longer I watch him work, the more turned on I get.

I'm completely intoxicated by Tyne's toned body, the way that his muscles ripple with every little movement.

When the detergent pod finally finishes, he walks over to me, flashing a boyish smile.

All finished, he says.

Thank you, I reply, staring intently into Tyne's deep blue eyes.

Suddenly, the cleaning tool's expression changes.

Up until this point, I wasn't entirely sure if the tension I'd be feeling between us was one-sided, but somehow this exchange makes it perfectly clear that the feeling is mutual.

My heart pounding hard.

And that's where we're going to end that clip.

To listen to the whole episode and many more steamy and erotic tales, including stories read by Cecil Baldwin, Symphony Sanders, and Mara Wilson, check out Pounded in the Butt by MyOwnPodcast.com or search for the show in your favorite podcast app.

Next, we're going to hear from It Makes a Sound, a surprising and funny fiction podcast that debuted on our network last fall.

It Makes a Sound is about a woman named Deirdre who finds a cassette tape from 1992 in her attic.

It's also a story about memory and family and music, and it truly goes places that you wouldn't expect.

You think you know the direction this podcast is going, but you don't.

I won't tell you much more.

Instead, let's jump into the middle of the story and listen to episode five titled Press Play.

When a tree falls in a forest and no one's around to hear it,

it makes a sound.

Ladies and gentlemen of Rosemary Hills, today is a really big day.

This is your show.

I mean, this is my show.

I am your host, Deirdre Gardner, and this is my show.

It makes a sound.

Hello.

Just weeks ago, a cassette tape was recovered from a dusty attic in a suburban townhouse.

A tape that contains the first public concert of our hometown genius, Wim Pharaohs.

And today,

at long last, we have located a boom box from which we can play that tape.

I'm shaking.

Is everybody shaking with excitement?

For the music.

Yes, mom, that's right.

We are here for the music.

And that's why, listeners, we are all here together.

For this very special event, I have assembled a studio audience here in the attic.

A lucky chosen few here to witness firsthand the playing of the tape.

Mom is here.

I don't know about that.

Say hello, mom.

Hello, mom.

And my mother is right.

This is a boombox, and it has a cassette tape player.

Hallelujah.

I risked my life for this.

Oh, and also we have Cody Elwood, son of Tricia Elwood.

It's hyphenated.

I'm sorry, it's hyphenated.

Cody came home with me because Tricia was suddenly called into work.

I wanted to be with my boo-box.

And I'd like to introduce to you Rod Reeder.

Oh, Mom's new part-time nurse, who has just started work this week.

And how lucky for him that he is present with us today of all days.

We welcome Rod.

You like Rod.

Oh, yes.

Now he and I were in the rainbow with the pigeon coop usually.

That's right.

You can say hello, Rod.

Hello.

That's a whore flower for Rosemary.

Today, the code is cracked.

The gates open, and that which was foretold will be told.

And we are ready to make Rosemary Hills listen again.

Today, live, in real time, we will insert the cassette tape into the cassette tape player.

Today, we will press play,

and sounds will be made on It Makes a Sound.

I'm your host, Deirdre Gardner, and this is the moment we've been waiting for.

It seems very special, very symbolic,

that this little audience gathered here around the boombox.

Can we let's gather around the boom box, please?

Yeah, can you give mom, Rod?

We all represent different shades of listener who need Wim Ferros' music in their lives.

Cody,

the youth of our Rosemary Hills.

Cody told me today, at his home, during the last episode, just about an hour ago, that he didn't like music.

I know.

But I think that's going to change today.

The day the music lived.

Cody, could you just stand more across from mom there?

A little more to your left.

No, the other left.

I like this.

There you go.

Yeah, that's.

And Rod.

Rod.

Rod.

Stand here.

Rod, a non-native.

A newcomer to Rosemary Hills who didn't feel the reverberations of Wimpharos in 1992, but now has the chance to encounter the artist who made this particular place to live special among all the places to live.

And mom,

who struggles to remember, but was there, was somehow imprinted.

Print me

and is here now.

And that's something.

So, listener, I ask you:

are you a Cody, a Rod?

A mom?

Me.

We all need the music.

Why do you need the music?

Why do you need the music?

Okay.

I think we're ready.

Steady, Freddy.

The cassette tape containing the concert known to us colloquially as the attic tape because of its discovery in the attic, known at the time as the Elwood commencement, because the concert was recorded at Tricia Elwood's eighth grade graduation party, has been inserted into the boom box.

Already plugged in, thankfully.

The first song that we will hear on the tape, as we know, of course, from episode three, is I Am a Moment.

Ladies and gentlemen, coming to you from a townhouse on the edge of Rosemary Hills golf course community.

Rosemary remembers and rolls.

Oh, yes, yes, yes, mom.

Rosemary wants to remember.

And we stand here on the precipice of a musical renaissance.

We stand.

We look into into the precipice.

We press play.

Without further ado.

Oh, God.

I don't have my glasses on.

This is the play button, right?

Yes.

Are you sure that is?

Can I press it?

No, you can't.

I'm sorry.

No, you can't, but this is it.

Are you sure?

And now,

at last,

Wim Pharos is back in Rosemary Hills.

Oh my god, oh my god, stop it!

Stop it!

Help me!

Stop it!

It's not stopping it!

Oh, come on!

Oh my god, forward!

Stop it!

Help me!

Oh!

Oh my god!

Oh no!

No!

That's not

a good idea!

Oh my gosh!

Whoa!

That looks cool, like lots of eels swimming on top of each other.

My tape.

The tape is ruined.

Look at it.

That is the only copy.

No, no, the boombox did not eat my tape.

No.

How is this happening?

How is this happening?

There could be several remedies.

The tape maybe had a foreign substance on the ribbon that made it stick to the capstand and pinch roller.

It could be the drive hub, too, but it's probably the pinch roller.

It's lost.

Pinch.

It's all lost.

It's lost.

Do you understand?

I lost it again.

Nothing works.

Why does nothing work for me?

Nothing.

Oh my god, no.

I can't stand it.

Nothing stays.

I can't do this.

I can't stand it, Mom.

I don't

stand it.

No, no, ma'am.

Get away from me, hell.

I'm sorry.

No.

She keeps me here.

I'm into hole.

Really to you.

You bit me, Mom.

It's Deirdre.

Mom, it's Deirdre.

Oh, I got her.

It's okay, Mom.

I'm sorry.

It's me.

It's me, Deirdre.

It's okay.

You stay!

You are the most lost.

You devil loser.

Real, mom.

You're okay, Mrs.

Gardner.

Sorry, Deirdre.

Let me get it.

I could get her.

I am getting it.

Out of here.

Mrs.

Gardner.

Do you want some toast?

No, no, not.

It's not.

You're okay, Mrs.

Gardner.

You're safe.

Let's have some toast.

You like toast, right?

We like toast.

Come with me.

It's okay.

We're fine.

I'll go toast the nice man here.

I'll go, and you are rue.

I like making cinnamon raven toast.

It makes me feel better.

Careful on serious.

And rue to you, and rue, and rue.

Good night, ladies.

I'm not a lady.

We lost him.

We lost him.

I'm the only one who knows.

Listeners.

Oh, listeners, I'm sorry.

I'm sorry, Rosemary Hills.

It's gone.

I can't even play a cassette tape.

And everything's lost.

Again, there's nothing.

There's no sound.

There's no sound.

Trees just fall, you know?

Wind Pharaohs is a tree that fell into nothing.

I'm a tree that falls, and nobody cares.

Mom doesn't even remember that she's a tree.

It's pointless.

Do you know how lonely?

Your mother doesn't know you.

We are the whole.

Just noises in the attic.

Nobody's listening to you.

This, nobody hears you, dear dra duh.

You live in a vacuum.

Mom's right.

We are.

We are the 16th hole.

Somehow, that's right.

It's raining really hard.

Oh, Cody.

I forgot you were here.

Deirdre,

I'm sorry.

Thanks.

Boom boxes suck.

Yeah

they really suck.

Yeah,

I really wanted to hear Wim Pharaohs.

Me too.

We come bearing toast.

Sorry.

Hi.

We made some toast if you'd like it.

We're feeling better now, right, Mrs.

G?

Yes.

And I sorry, I brought my banjo up here to the attic.

Is that okay?

I like to keep my banjo in the car when I'm with patients.

Music can help.

It's calming.

It's like my emergency banjo.

I thought Mrs.

Gardiner might like it.

Are you in a band?

No.

Rod, um,

I think it's best if we call it a day.

I'll pay you for the whole shift.

Cody, you should go home.

I need-I don't, I need to curl up somewhere.

I am a moment.

Call de sack.

Come on, give me the tape case, okay?

Dee writes this here, Dee Dadum.

That's right, that's my handwriting.

Star 69,

sad but not depressed.

The clapper, old people.

Youth grows old.

Yes, moaned.

Magic eye.

Ghost dear.

She doesn't usually read.

Her brain scrambles.

Are those the songs that Wim Ferris played at the concert?

Yeah.

The first concert was here in Rosemary Hills.

It was here on the golf course at the clubhouse.

Wow, right across from my house.

Sad but not depressed.

Sounds like a good song for right now.

Apropos, they say.

Do you remember it, Deirdre?

Oh, I don't know.

I don't want to talk about it.

Fancy birds, filthy birds.

There's some peacocks on your roof.

I think the power is going out.

Oh my god, no.

Do you know?

Oh,

shit.

It's out.

It's the birds.

The bird lights wait.

Where's mom?

Is mom sitting down?

Yep, she's here next to me.

I'm right here, Mrs.

G, it's okay.

Cody?

I'm not scared.

Cody, I'm right here.

I got you.

Can you feel me?

Yeah.

Yeah.

Yeah, here it is.

It's all good.

Emergency bangs.

Okay, thanks.

Is there a flashlight?

Okay, yeah, hold on.

It's over.

Ow, ow.

Are you okay?

Yeah.

it's right here.

It's in dark.

I got it.

I got it.

I got it.

Okay, Cody, hold this flashlight, okay?

Yeah.

There you go.

Can you shine it over here?

There's some ancient candles I know somewhere.

Ancient candles.

Here.

Okay.

All right, everybody.

Can I have some cinnamon raisin toast?

Yeah, of course.

Go for it.

Okay, it makes me feel better.

You okay, mom?

All good.

She fell asleep.

She's fast at that.

It's funny.

At the concert, too, I remember the lights were turned off.

When he got to that song,

it must have been time for Trisha's cake.

What kind of cake was it?

I don't remember.

You know, I do remember.

It was chocolate ice cream cake from Dairy Queen.

Cool.

With those

scrunchie things, those are good.

And Wim was lit only by glow sticks.

It was so awesome, I thought.

I don't know where the glow sticks came from.

He didn't have glow sticks up until that moment.

Yeah, Tricia would probably say there weren't any glow sticks.

Do you remember any of the tune?

Yeah, of course.

He had his

guitar, the acoustic guitar.

It was kind of perky at the beat.

It was like bum

boom, boom, boom,

boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom.

I wrote some of the lyrics in my diary, I think.

I mean, it's not going to be right on the banjo.

It was much more epic.

There was percussion, everything.

Oh, cool.

How did he play percussion at the same time as his guitar?

I don't know.

I don't know, but there was definitely percussion.

Can you guys feel around for a Velveteen diary?

It should be right around here, like maybe behind you.

Cody, do you play drums?

No.

You play any of them?

Video games.

Aha, here it is.

Cody, can you shine a light right here?

Mm-hmm.

Thank you.

Okay, where is it?

It's definitely from this song.

I remember.

Here, here it is.

See, I wrote WF 92 right next to it.

I don't mind the money.

I don't mind the golf.

But the fence around my favorite place just kind of pissed me off.

I'm not depressed.

I'm just shit.

No, that's not right.

I'm just.

I'm not depressed.

I'm just.

I have it.

I remember it.

It was.

It was different.

It was like, um.

I'm not depressed.

Yeah, I'm not depressed.

Wait, that's.

Yeah, I'm not depressed.

Yeah, no, that sounds like that Dave Matthews band song.

No, no, no, no.

It was whimsy.

I'm not depressed.

No.

No, no.

It's okay.

No, it's okay.

It's memories.

That's what they do.

It's funny.

No, that's not what I'm substituting.

That can't be.

Maybe the chorus sounded kind of crazy.

Wait, I know more of it.

Um, there was a hi there was a part about the highway.

It was like, um, uh, driving over.

Oh my god, that is.

It's your right.

That's not right.

Well, go back to the chorus part.

It kind of first sounded like you were going up in a different way, and then

you went down.

Is it maybe more like

a

dangerous

sad.

I'm not depressed.

Just sad.

Not depressed.

I'm just sad.

Oh.

I'm not depressed.

I think that is right.

I'm not depressed.

Just sad.

Yeah, that is right.

I'm not depressed.

I'm just sad.

Two blocks away, my favorite place to stay.

In 20-acre wood, my imagination played.

I was just a child when I watched it fall away.

Bulldoze to the ground, yeah, my forest overpaved.

Years of memories, climbing in the trees, flattened by remorse, the polish of the course.

That's it, mom?

That's exactly it.

I'm not depressed.

I'm just sad.

I'm not depressed.

I'm just sad.

I'm not depressed.

I'm just sad.

I'm not depressed.

I'm just sad.

Given a prescription, parents gave me pills.

Follow up on Tuesday with Dr.

Sataro.

Acting like the courses, closely manicured.

Putting something polished over something natural.

I don't mind the money,

I don't mind the golf.

But the fence around my favorite place just kind of pierced me on.

I'm not depressed, I'm just sad.

I'm not depressed, I'm just sad.

I'm not depressed,

I'm just sad.

I'm not depressed, I'm just sad.

I'm not depressed, I'm just sad.

I'm not depressed, I'm just sad.

Whoa,

I'm good at the drums.

The lights are back.

Whoa,

oh mom.

You remembered Wimpharos's song.

I saw that strange boy digging all day today with a shovel.

Digging next to his trolls.

Who did he bury down there, do you think?

Oh,

hello, Deirdre, my girl.

Hi, Mom.

You can find more episodes of It Makes a Sound at itmakesassound.com.

Listen to the entire nine-episode season today and check out their Patreon to support the production of a full-length album based on the songs from the show.

Tune in next week for part three of the summer of Night Vale Presents, featuring a trucker searching across America for the wife she had long assumed was dead, and a man trying to plan the perfect dreamy brunch.

Find out more about Night Vale Presents and all of our shows at nightvelpresense.com.

And hey,

thanks.

I'm Amy Nicholson, the film critic for the LA Times.

And I'm Paul Scheer, an actor, writer, and director.

You might know me from the League Veep or my non-eligible for Academy Award role in Twisters.

We love movies, and we come at them from different perspectives.

Yeah, like Amy thinks that, you know, Joe Pesci was miscast in Goodfellas, and I don't.

He's too old.

Let's not forget that Paul thinks that Dude 2 is overrated.

It is.

Anyway, despite this, we come together to host Unspooled, a podcast where we talk about good movies, critical hits, fan favorites, must-sees, and in case you missed them.

We're talking Parasite the Home Alone, From Greece to the Dark Knight.

We've done deep dives on popcorn flicks, we've talked about why Independence Day deserves a second look, and we've talked about horror movies, some that you've never even heard of, like Ganja and Hess.

So, if you love movies like we do, come along on our cinematic adventure.

Listen to Unspooled wherever you get your podcasts.

And don't forget to hit the follow button.

Are you squeamish about horror movies, but kind of want to know what happens?

Or are you a horror lover who likes thoughtful conversation about your favorite genre?

Join me, Jeffrey Kraner, and my friend from Welcome to Nightville, Cecil Baldwin, for our weekly podcast, Random Number Generator Horror Podcast Number 9, where we watch and discuss horror movies in a random order.

Find, here's the short version, Random Horror 9 wherever you get your podcasts.

Boo.