ballpoint pens archive

introduction

The Powerbook G4 was already past its prime when I donated it to Ross in 2006. I was moving to Brooklyn. He was staying in Richmond, Virginia, where we went to college. (I graduated with a degree in graphic design, he dropped out and became a manager at a beloved local hipster sushi place.)

I was 21 years old and still clinging to the idea that I would spend my life making music with my best friend. Our band was called the Gaskets: a goofy, dance-y synth-pop duo formed in high school. Two CDs and countless shows later, I was convinced that we were about to break. (The optimism of youth!) If we were going to continue writing together, we would have to do it remotely. We needed a way to share files. I had a new computer, so I gave him my old one.

A year after I moved, our long-distance collaboration had resulted in only five finished new songs. I was intent on getting my career started and Ross was drinking more than usual. He missed shows and skipped recording dates. One day, after trying to get in touch with him for over a week, I finally got him on the phone. “I’m just not into it anymore,” he said. The notoriously fickle nature of long-term relationships didn’t make his withdrawal any less painful.

When Ross died in 2010, the Powerbook I’d given him came back to me. The machine was slow, loud, and buggy. As a laptop, worthless. But it was full of music: dozens of untitled mp3s imported from discs burned on an ex-girlfriend’s computer, plus a folder of GarageBand projects. There were songs and semi-songs and rough sketches produced with seemingly no end in mind—simply a record of experimentation and expression.

It’s not that I wasn’t already familiar with his solo material, which he sporadically posted on myspace and emailed to friends under the moniker Ballpoint Pens. But there was so much on the laptop that was totally new to me.

I loved the songs, and I became convinced that their worth was not strictly sentimental. They were catchy and tender; funny and sad. Probably we’d call it “bedroom pop” now; the tools were Ross’s voice, a cheap acoustic, and whatever sounds came preloaded in GarageBand. He played and sang directly into the computer microphone.

This project is an attempt to transfer and translate those songs. Part archive, part collaboration. I hope the people who loved Ross will be glad to hear the sound of his voice again. And perhaps a few new listeners will tap into his wavelength and discover what made him so special.