Bum Sums: A Revolutionary Rewatch, Web Surf Lessons, & Milk Crate Records

Bum Diary Weekly Newsletter: Issue No. 6

HOW THE HELL IS IT ALREADY MID-JULY?

The water lily: one of July’s birth flowers. Also one of Claude Monet’s obsessions.

Good day. OR IS IT…

…no, it’s not. Earlier this week it hit me that we’re halfway through July, which really means we’re already past through half of the summer. I say this like I’m returning to school or something in the fall––I will not be––I just can’t believe we’ve already drained 50% of the summer’s battery.

My sister’s birthday is next week, but besides that, I can’t think of one fun thing that happens between late July and August. It’s always the hottest, driest time of the year.

Melted asphalt glues to your shoe. The mosquito bites on your arm read ‘just kill me now’ in braille. You ruminate on the few remaining weeks you have left, only to realize you’ll waste those too because you have to catch up on your summer reading.

But I just graduated college. So summer reading doesn’t mean jack shit to me anymore. I could care less. Sure, I have been reading R.F. Kuang’s Yellowface, and yes, I really love reading it and absolutely recommend it, and yeah, it just so happens to be during the summertime when I read it. But that’s different, smartass.

The only important summer reading assignment YOU have to deal with is this weekly newsletter, so let’s get right into it!

You Were Never Really Boring

Welcome back to the Rec Room, our newest weekly column written by our good friend and killer writer Aidan Barrett. Aidan discusses all the Hollywood highs and lows in a spin of his own style on his weekly substack Development Hell. Subscribe now for free.

DANGER! MOVIE SPOILERS. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

“You Were Never Really Here” directed by Lynne Ramsay, 2017.

You Were Never Really Here, the fourth feature film from Lynne Ramsay, debuted at the 2017 Cannes Film Festival and was given a wide US release in the spring of 2018. Two years later, I watched it for the first time at the age of seventeen. My initial assessment was that it was a weirder, lamer, more boring version of Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive, a staple in Teenage Boy Cinema — and it’s not hard to see why.

Both feature an acclaimed male actor in the lead role. Both are about a quiet “literally me” career criminal who is forced to protect those he loves after a job goes south. Both received critical acclaim. Imagine my disappointment when I sat down anticipating something as effortlessly cool and iconic as Drive, and instead got a choppily-edited artsy-fartsy story with barely any good action!

“Drive” directed by Nicolas Windig Refn, 2011.

I didn’t think about You Were Never Really Here much after watching it. A few years went by. Then, sometime last year, I had a bizarre urge to rewatch it. Maybe I saw a still from the movie posted somewhere online. Maybe I had been listening to a track from the movie’s score and started reminiscing. Whatever the reason, something inside of me was shouting: “Give this movie another chance.”

Aidan realizing he has to watch “You Were Never Really Here” again on his drive home one day.

I initially ignored that instinct. I had better things to do than carve out ninety minutes in my busy schedule to rewatch a decent-but-unremarkable experimental film that I had seen. I had responsibilities – schoolwork, actual work, commitments with friends – and for the precious hours I did have reserved for film, there was (and still is) an endless list of classics that I have yet to watch for the first time. Going back to a movie I had a lukewarm response to would be a waste of time. So, I ignored the urge.

For about six months or so, that is. And a few months ago, I finally gave in. The urge had remained, tempting me over and over with the assurance that there was more to this little movie than I gave it credit for. And so, I opened my laptop to see if that little voice in my head was right.

It was.

You Were Never Really Here is about a PTSD-ridden man named Joe, played by Joaquin Phoenix. All we know about Joe is that he was severely abused by his father as a child, served in the military, and now kills child abusers as a mercenary-for-hire while taking care of his elderly mother. After another successful assignment, Joe’s handler instructs him to rescue Nina, the runaway preteen daughter of a local senator, who is being held in an underage brothel for wealthy patrons. Joe successfully breaks into the brothel and secures the girl, but is unaware that this organization has ties to the US government, and now has agents on his tail. Things expectedly tumble out of control from there.

Joaquin Phoenix’s character: Good ol’ PTSD-ridden Joe

You Were Never Really Here is indeed similar to Drive, but it is also very different in a number of ways. You can immediately tell off the bat from their titles: “Drive” is short, sweet, and to the point, while “You Were Never Really Here” is a vague mouthful of a sentence that doesn’t have an immediately obvious interpretation in relation to the plot. Drive had a smooth, instantly-iconic soundtrack of ‘80s-esque synth bangers, while You Were Never Really Here doesn’t have any licensed music — instead, its soundscape is dominated by a bizarre, eclectic original score by Radiohead member Jonny Greenwood that includes harsh guitar plucks, xylophone chimes, and more unpredictable synth beats. Drive has a traditional three-act structure and clocks in at an expected 100 minute runtime, whereas You Were Never Really Here is a remarkably short 89 minutes (with credits) and has a shockingly sparse plot.

There’s also the subject of action. Drive has all the brutal kills you’d expect in a highly-stylized, neon-soaked R-rated revenge film. But, despite its story containing just as much murder, You Were Never Really Here plays with the very idea of showing violence by withholding most of it from us. Two different sequences in the film depict Joe breaking into a guarded compound, killing every man in his way. In both sequences, the film uses clever intercutting between different locations inside the compounds to hide most of the kills — Joe can be seen approaching his next victim, or walking away from their bludgeoned corpses, but we barely ever get glimpses at the strikes themselves. At one point, Joe opens his hotel room door to see a housekeeping employee standing outside with a gun to his head. Right as the police officer behind the employee pulls the trigger, we cut back to see Joe’s stunned reaction as blood splatters his face. Seconds later, Joe is tackled to the floor, and the camera only allows us to watch the struggle through the reflection of the grimy, stained ceiling mirror.

The camera only allows us to watch the struggle through the reflection of the grimy, stained ceiling mirror.

To seventeen-year-old Aidan, this so-called “action” was unsatisfying. On my second watch, it was clear that Ramsay is trying to say something with this creative choice. The violence isn’t the point. But what is, then?

The answer hit me during a scene at the end of the film’s second act. After losing Nina to the criminal organization, Joe flees back to his home, where his mother has already been murdered in her sleep by agents who are waiting for his return. In most revenge movies, this would be the moment where the enraged protagonist valiantly rips these two goons to pieces in a righteous display of vengeance.

If the violence isn’t the point, what is then?

But things proceed differently than that. Joe kills the first of the two agents and mortally wounds the second. As the bleeding agent crawls into the kitchen, Joe gives him a painkiller so he can speak, and then berates him with questions. The agent admits some crucial information to Joe — then, weakly, begins singing along to the song playing on the radio in the kitchen. Joe processes this, then sings along with the man for a moment. As the light starts to fade from the agent’s eyes, he holds Joe’s hand. Joe does not resist. Instead of giving the man he’s fatally wounded the painful death we believe he deserves, Joe empathizes with him in his final moments, and lies beside him on the floor in melancholic tranquility.

It’s because Joe is the same as this man. Both of them are heavies paid to do the bloody bidding of others. Politicians and elite pedophiles treat guys like them as janitors to clean up their corrupt, depraved messes. Their existences are empty, violent, abnormal — forgotten. To the rest of the world… they were never really here to begin with.

You Were Never Really Here is not a story of revenge. It is a story of liberation. What do you do when you’ve been a slave for a single purpose your entire life, and then that purpose disappears? Do you cease to exist? Or do you finally begin to live?

When your purpose disappears, do you cease to exist or finally begin to live?

This question is nailed down in the final scene of the film. Joe and Nina are sitting in a diner, exhausted. Joe’s mother, his handler, and all his enemies are now dead. Nina’s father has committed suicide, and her whereabouts are completely unknown to the police. Neither are tied down to their usual responsibilities any longer. They are free to go wherever they want. Joe sits, pondering this new reality of his. Nina gets up to use the restroom. While she is gone, Joe imagines blowing his brains out in the busy diner. Seconds later, Nina returns and wakes up Joe, telling him, “It’s a beautiful day.” The two of them leave the diner.

Despite watching movies somewhat religiously, I always feel as though I’m playing catch-up when it comes to enriching myself in the history of Great Cinema. As such, I often feel guilt at the thought of spending two of my precious hours rewatching something I’ve already seen. But, if this rewatch taught me anything, it’s that the greatest watching experiences often happen on the second go-around. Lots of great art can’t be fully digested when you’re a kid. Sometimes, a movie that made you bored at seventeen will push you to the verge of tears only five years later. (It’s still hard for me to listen to “Tree Synthesizers” by Jonny Greenwood without getting choked up.)

If you ever find yourself looking back to a movie or book or album that you didn’t quite get as a teenager, and something about it keeps sticking in your mind… pay attention to that feeling. Your brain is telling you that there might be more to appreciate than you initially realized. And there’s a good chance that rewatching it will be even more rewarding than you can imagine. Just because a piece of art didn’t work for you yesterday doesn’t mean it can’t tomorrow.

When the piece of art that sucked yesterday completely rocks your world the next day.

Written by Aidan Barrett.

Enjoyed reading this column? Tap the comments feature at the top of this email and tell us: what piece of art hit better the second time you gave it a chance? If you comment, we’ll respond and feature it in next week’s email.

Let’s Go Web Surfing

Surf’s up kooks! We’ve been updating our entire website. Totally tubular man.

Though Ben might kill me for posting about this while it’s not 110% fully finished, this week is rather tame story wise so I figured it is finally time to inform the masses, paint the whole town red, and crack the hell out of the liberty bell.

Bored at work? Bored from work? Procrastinating from work while at work? Funemployed?

No matter your pain, our website is the perfect remedy to this thunder storm of media disruption. So wax your laptop’s circuit board and come catch some gnarly digital waves over at the thebumdiary.com!

Whether you want to re-read a past newsletter piece, are in the mood for an older story we’ve published, or want to check out our editors’ letter entries, come click around on our new site!

Milk Crate Records: A Summer Overseas

Welcome to Milk Crate Records, your one-stop-shop for tunes from all over the sonic universe. This is Max’s new weekly column where he’ll ramble and suggest musicians you hopefully don’t know yet. Headphones recommended for the proper digestion of this section.

If you’ve ever hung out with me before in this grand experience we call life, there’s a good chance I was wearing a band t-shirt and/or headphones. Does that makes me sound like a pretentious douchebag? Yes.

I love music. All of it, practically any genres except for maybe modern country, algorithm-dependent hyperpop, and the really hardcore heavy metal where screaming in the microphone just makes me laugh.

Alternative rock, punk, rnb, funk, rap, bossa nova, surf rock, shoegaze, electronic dance, blues, house, classic rock, samba, post-punk, trap, new wave, grunge, garage, bedroom, folk, psychedelic, indie pop, dream pop, cold wave, synthwave, classic hip-hop––I live for it all.

I’ve been running a playlist on Spotify since high school in 2019. I at least upload songs every week. 6 years and 1,800 songs later the playlist is practically 100 hours long. Four days of good ol’ white-guy-curated alt rock!

It started as a small playlist for upbeat, fast-paced indie rock songs that I couldn’t figure out how to individually categorize, so I called it “Fast/Indie/Alt/Surf Rock”. What a clever title. As it gathered a few random likes, I began investing more time into finding more tracks. I strengthen my playlist and in return find more killer tracks. Everybody wins.

My baby…that can be YOUR baby too!

I ended up finding so many great artists that fly under the radar: whether that’s the Spotify radar, Bandcamp radar, dead music forum radar, YouTube comment section radar, or my other secret sources for finding submerged songs.

Before I knew it, I was picking up foreign artists from all around the world that simply make amazing alternative rock. Artists from Argentina, Portugal, France, Australia, Indonesia, The Philippines, Japan, Russia, Scotland, Mexico, I could keep going on and on. Listening to songs that aren’t in your native language deepens your connection with them even more. Even if you don’t know what the hell they’re talking about, if you can get down with the rhythm, that’s all that matters.

With all of that said, this is going to be my weekly music recommendation column. This week’s theme will be sun-soaked bops from overseas. I think anyone living in the U.S. right now wishes they could be at some dance club on a different part of the equator.

These 3 songs tonally nail the summer of 2025’s spirit: a dance floor stained with sea salt and sticky rum, being exiled and depressed in Brazil, and wondering what Indonesian surfers do in the summer.

Here’s 3 international summer tracks you wish you heard yesterday:

#1: Sciallà by Nu Genea

Modern italo-disco duo Nu Genea from Napoli, Italy.

A warm, groovy blend of funk, italo disco, and samba.

This fresh Italian track feels like drinking an ice cold Peroni on a boat, crashing a cherry red Ferrari 250 GTO into a pizzeria, and then trudging through a sandy beach in flip flops and almost stepping on a jelly fish.

Catchy bass riffs, hand claps, a woman singing Italian, psychedelic guitar, drums your feet stomp to…this Mediterranean music has it all. Make sure to apply olive oil all over your ears for a legit authentic Italian listening experience.

#2: Ficou pra Trás by Turmallina

Shoegaze dreampop band Turmallina from São Paulo, Brazil.

If Nu Genea’s Sciallà is a let’s-go-dance-at-the-beach type of international summer song, then Ficou pra Trás is the international summer anthem for night-swimming in a pool right as the lights turn off.

That eerie feeling of comfort as you float in the warm, dark void.

Turmallina is a Brazilian band from São Paulo who fuses dreampop with shoegaze to create an ethereal soundscape. Supported by surfy guitar riffs, texturized drum beats, grainy punk-fueled bass, and the lead singer’s voice that I really dig, this track’s title translates to “was left behind” or “stayed behind”.

#3: What They Do In The Summer by The Cat Police

Surf rock group The Cat Police from Tangerang, Indonesia.

An indie band from Tangerang, Indonesia, The Cat Police are a group that just love anything surf rock related.

Their song What They Do In The Summer starts off with your classic tremolo surf rock riff, only to speed up with soft-drum beats, twangy guitar riffs, and catchy melodies about what Indonesians surf in the summer.

The sound transforms from tropical Eastern surf rock into that mellow mid-2000’s indie rock sound, like in Voxtrot’s The Start of Something.

That’s all for this week on Bum Sums! If you enjoyed reading and think a friend would too, forward them this email and beg them to sign up. If you want your own weekly column, or any other fun ideas, contact us. We want to make this the best community building newsletter out there. Stay tuned for more stories next week.

This is the ‘63 Ferrari 250 GTO in case anyone was curious. Born to be driven through pizzerias.

Written by Max Van Hosen.

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