Archive of Our Own

The Pogues: An Inside into Music’s Hottest New Band

Rolling Stones Interview

Childhood friends turned band mates: the key to success? On the road with the It band of the summer.

            This may be a surprise to many, but their first album The Cut, while an ode to the town that raised them, also tells the love story between two of its band members.

            Let me explain.

--

            JOHN B. Routledge “John B” (21), Kiara Carrera “Kie”(21), JJ Maybank (21) and Pope Heyward (21), make up the up and coming Quadro. It’s the latter most of this group that arranged this assignment. Pope Heyward – producer, co-songwriter, backup guitarist, also acts as the band’s manager.

“I’m the only one I trust to keep all of us in line,” he explains, when asked. He smiles as he says this, fond. One might call Heyward’s appearance on the album brief, compared to the rest.

“I’m not a singer,” he says. “The rest can multitask. I produce, help with verses, and make sure we get where we need to in one piece.” A pause. “I also make sure we don’t blow off all of our money.”

“I heard that!” Maybank cries from the next room.

Heyward rolls his eyes, but a smile still spreads on his lips.

It would be easy to forgive Heyward if he would wish to forsake the manager role. Though their presence in the music industry has been relatively brief – though apparently, they’ve been writing and recording since high school – they’ve already become infamous. In the year or since they exploded onto the scene, they’ve not only had multiple headlines – one of which Maybank was caught punching another male in one of the bars they were performing in – but are also responsible with the downfall and subsequent imprisonment of record label owner Ward Cameron and his son Rafe Cameron, all while it was rumoured that Routledge was dating Sarah Cameron, pop princess and daughter of the disgraced Cameron.

Before I meet with the band, I speculate as to why they consented to my presence over the next few months. They’ve done a spectacular job of dodging the media frenzy, even staying off social media at the advice of their lawyers until the Cameron case was over. But then this May they released their first EP – including their hit single Are You Bored Yet? -- which skyrocketed to number one on the iTunes alternative chart, and then announced a series of concerts across the country to, in the words of Routledge ‘give the fans a taste before the full-length album’. When I arrive, they are still writing and recording for said project. I will join them for their tour across the country and the recording of their first feature length album during it. But back to my theory. Was it to rebuild their reputation? Create one? Promote a certain lifestyle?

Later on, when I ask Heyward as to why he contacted me (more specifically, my boss) for this assignment, he shrugs.

“We’ve all read your stuff,” he states. “Liked it. You’re honest. Won’t sugar-coat anything.”

The rest nod in unison.

As I conduct my research, I theorize that they think perhaps this is the best way for people to get to know them.

Which, I suppose, fair enough.

I’ve dealt with both the very best and the very worst of this industry and wonder as to how The Pogues will land on this list.

--

IT’S A BLISTERING HOT JUNE day in South Carolina when I meet these up and coming musicians. I’m tired from the bus drive from the airport, eager to sit down somewhere with some air conditioner and a shower. While they’re all from North Carolina, they came down for a ‘small vacation’ – which I later learned mostly consisted of surfing and fishing – before they went on tour.

I survey the beach that Heyward instructed me to arrive at. The parking lot is full of sand-dusted cars, mostly small. I pause a little at the sight of the massive tour bus near the end of the parking lot, parked right next to a vintage, Beatlesque era minivan. There appears to be someone in the front seat of this van, speaking to someone whose hands appear to be on their hips.

I recognise this person to be Pope Heyward.

As I approach, the driver in the minivan starts to leave the parking lot. As it passes by, I notice the massive surfboards shoved in the back. A part of my stomach drops. The prospect of spending the next few months stuck with surfer dudes is not a pleasant one. But alas, professionalism wins out, and I force myself to move forward.

“Hello.”

Heyward whirls around, eyes widening comically.

“You’re early,” he blurts out.

Heyward is a wearing a ballcap – back first – an unbuttoned t-shirt and a pair of swim shorts. It’s not the most promising of beginnings, but I’ve had worse.

“I sent you an email, Mr. Heyward,” I say. “Last night. About the express bus.”

“Shit,” he swears, visibly panicking.

I watch him grow more and more flustered.

“Sorry,” he settles on finally, extending out his hand. I shake it, noting its firm grip. “We’re all in a bit of a scramble today. First across-country tour and all.”

“Of course.”

He escorts me to my new home for the next few weeks, offers to carry my suitcase for me. His expression has turned steadier now that his panic has faded. Heyward is like that – when he panics, it’s only for a second, and then he’s so smooth and sturdy you think you imagined him losing his cool.

“Jeez Pope, why do you look like you have a stick up your ass?”

This is how I’m introduced to John B. Routledge, who also happens to be shirtless. He’s holding a bowl of cereal in his hands, spoon in his mouth. His expression dies when he catches sight of me behind Heyward.

“Shit,” he swears, running his hand through his hair.

The bus smells like axe deodorant and Febreze, sprinkled in with the sea.

There’s a set of curtains that separates the driver’s seat from the rest of the bus. It pulls open suddenly to reveal a frowning JJ Maybank – who is also shirtless – who is holding a small Ziplock bag in his hands, a juul in his mouth. He lifts his above his head as a girl – who I identify as Kiara Carrera – crashes into him, jumping at the Ziplock bag.

“John B. quick, grab the stash before Kiara tries to flush it down the toilet—”

“JJ you fucking asshole—”

They both stop at the sight of me. The juul falls from Maybank lips to the ground.

“Fuck,” he and Carrera swear.

--

            AFTER the less than ideal introduction, I give The Pogues a few minutes to collect themselves. They disappear behind the curtain – which I now notice is covered in stars, like curtains you’d find in a child’s bedroom – and I sit down on the driver’s seat. I hear the closing of cupboards and doors, loud footfalls, even a distinct fuck from near the back of the bus. On the dashboard, there’s a girl with a hoola skirt. I think then that perhaps I really am spending my summer with a bunch of surfer dudes and a surfer chick and mentally prepare myself for the agonising months to come.

Then, Heyward pushes the curtains apart and smiles at me. It’s a kind smile, reassuring, even if now it’s tinged with nervousness.

“Sorry about that,” he says, grabbing a hold of my suitcase. “Coming?”

I then get a tour of my new home. It’s a remarkably large tour bus – though appropriate enough for four adults – with a large and gleaming kitchen, fully stocked with a table, fridge and oven. Bean bags litter the area. There are comfy looking built in couches, littered with pillows and folded blankets.

“There’s two bathrooms,” Heyward informs me. “The other is in the back, by the studio.”

We walk past the bunk beds – two on each side, one on top of the other. I catch sight of a ukulele on one, laptop on another. Later, Maybank will show me the individualized settings – air conditioning, heating, speakers – and grin like a little kid showing off his toys. Carrera scowls beside him as he does this, explaining that the reason it took so long for them to get a proper tour bus was because she insisted on having one that ran exclusively on renewable energy.

“It was the only way Kie agreed to do this– trains would be too complicated, with everything we have to carry,” Heyward informs me when he walks by.

But back to the tour.

There are built in drawers and cupboards for each musician that look, at least to my eye, on the verge of bursting due to being over filled. I stay quiet. We meet with the others in the back end of the bus, where I find not only a large double bed with a massive closet (though the room is admittedly filled with guitar cases and keyboard cases, as well as various other instruments), but an adjoining room that leads to the built in studio. It appears to be currently untouched, though I am assured by Heyward that this will soon change.

“The bed back here is usually used for guests,” he tells me. “Don’t worry, the studio is soundproof, so you shouldn’t hear anything if the door isn’t open.”

I nod. The air is awkward for a moment, as if they don’t know how to act around a stranger. They file out of the room eventually, giving me a moment to settle in, which I appreciate.

It is a nice room that they’ve given me. I’m a little apprehensive about it being on the way to the studio, but it could be worse.

--

            OVER the next few days, I begin to learn about the members of The Pogues. Routledge – always called “John B.” by the rest (I later learn it’s because his father was known as Big John and apparently John B. sounded better than plain John, which, I suppose, fair enough) – is the apparent de-facto leader of the group.

“That’s right,” he says, stretching his arms out above his head. “I keep all of us in line.”

“Get us in trouble more like!” Heyward yells from the driver’s seat.

Routledge chuckles, makes no attempt to refute.

“Pope’s always been the brains of the operation,” he informs me. We pause as we hear Maybank and Carrera bickering playfully near the bunks.

He leans over and whispers: “Don’t tell JJ this – but he is the best surfer I’ve met. But it’ll go straight to his head.”

I swear myself to secrecy and question him more. Routledge is open and easy-going, willing to provide in depth answers to my questions. He has charm and snark, and the carefree attitude of any twenty something year old whose occupation is travelling around the country with his friends and making music. I don’t question him yet about the events of the past year – the legal battle against Cameron, his relationship with Sarah Cameron, the subsequent reveal that Cameron and his son were embedded in more illegal activities other than fraud that resulted in them being sentenced to twenty plus years in prison – but the time for answers will come. For now, I simply want to integrate myself into the dynamic smoothly enough.

He tells me of how they all met – he and Maybank back in the third grade, with Pope joining their duo in the fifth and then Kiara in the seventh.

“JJ punched the boy who was about to shove my head into a toilet,” he tells me, cracking a small smile.

I almost point out that Maybank has continued this behaviour into early adulthood, at least according to headlines last May. That seems an issue to bring up with the man in question.

We press on.

Based on conversations with all of them, I slowly begin to piece together how this formidable band came to be. They all lived in the Outer Banks, a string of barrier islands in North Carolina separated by two vastly different social classes – you were either on the lower end of the social and economic spectrum – “The Pogues – or the higher end of the spectrum, known as the ‘kooks’.

“It was super fucked,” Carrera tells me. “We would have hurricanes and those on the Cut would be out of electricity and running water for a week, if not more, and the Kooks on Figure Eight would barely be affected and would throw cocktail parties crowning the King and Queen of Midsummers or some shit. It was disgusting.”

I later learn that Carrera’s family was a part of the so-called Kooks.

“They own a restaurant,” she tells me.

“The Wreck,” Maybank inserts.

“Tourists love it,” Routledge chimes in.

“That’s where we first played somewhere other than John B’s place,” Pope says. John B.’s place, of course, is known by them as The Chateau.

I wonder if this is how all the conversations with the Pogues sitting down all in one spot go – finishing each other’s sentences whenever they wished.

I continue on with my first impressions of the remaining members. Maybank is all jokes and rare seriousness. He’s very rarely seen without his juul on his lips. He’s always bursting with energy – tapping his feet on the ground, his hands on the table, throwing a ball against the wall. I suspect that being cooped up in a bus doesn’t help. He startles easily too, but always has a smile or smirk on his face whenever it happens. I can see why he’s sought after by so much of the internet. A lot of his jokes verge on the edge of being too inappropriate or strikingly dark, but it’s all said with a smirk/smile that lacks any maliciousness or cruelty, only friendliness.

“Drums were a way of just unleashing all of my energy,” he tells me one day. It’s a role that suits him well. There is no strict lead singer of the group – both Carrera and Routledge seem to alternate that role or share most of the lead vocals. But Maybank can carry quite the tune, as demonstrated by their wildly popular cover of I want you to want me by Cheap Trick, sung as a duet of sorts between him and Carrera. People of the internet had screamed that it sounded like ‘the best song to have sex to’ and that Carrera’s and Maybank’s vocals together sounded like “a vocal orgasm’.

Maybank may be the Pogue who gets into trouble the most – even with things like leaving the toilet up or finishing the milk – but he’s also the one who makes me feel most welcome. He lacks Heyward’s constant concern or Routledge’s carefree outgoingness, and he’s often goofing off with his antics, but he’s also the one who remembers how I like my tea two days after meeting me and makes sure there’s enough coffee left in the pot just in case I want some. If not, he’s quick to drink it before anyone else. He’s a bit of an enigma, and I resolve to question him about the more problematic headlines about him that have emerged (such as the violence).

Carrera is often referred to as “Mom” by the boys, a title she’s earned mostly because she ensures they throw away all of their trash and makes them clean up after themselves. She never does it for them but makes sure to clean up after herself.

“I’m not their babysitter,” she tells me one night. “Too often girls are made to try and fix boys or be their keepers. Fuck that. We’re best friends – family, but I’m not their mother.”

Not that the boys ever try and make her be. In fact, the boys seem a little frightened of her, in an innocent, don’t poke the bear kind of way, like rock-paper-scissoring who has to wake Carrera – ‘Kie’ – from her nap because she’s grouchy when she wakes up. Carrera is, for lack of better term, real. She doesn’t sugar-coat things, which I admire.  There is no sense of illusion or trying to be anything than what she is. Which is, I soon discover, a planet-loving feminist whose attire (at least off the stage) seems to consist exclusively of cut off shorts and old t-shirts filled with holes or paint stains, with a scrunchie wrapped around her wrist and a bandana in her hair. She also knows more about ways to help the environment than anyone I’ve ever met and spends almost an hour the first evening detailing the benefits of solar energy and decrying how expensive renewable forms of energy are because of ‘greedy and power-hungry assholes’. She also commonly states “eat the rich”.

When I point out that her parents are rich people themselves, she grows a little quiet.

“Kie’s not like the Kooks,” Routledge says automatically.

That wasn’t what I meant, and for a moment I panic that I’ll be ostracized for the remaining trip.

“I know,” she says eventually. “I even had my Kook year in high school. The kook life can be persuasive.”

I’m tempted to ask more about her so called kook year but decide to leave it for another time. They’re also living the kook life now – their EP is wildly successful, they’re signed to a renowned record label owned by Susan Peterkin and are now touring the country. They live in a luxurious and highly renovated tour bus. But these are new luxuries to them, hard earned not handed to them, and I don’t see any sign of ego or snobbery. I can imagine them all as they are now fitting in seamlessly on the so-called Cut of their childhood. Moving on.

Heyward might have been called the dad of the group, if not for the fact that he was more often than not – or all the time – orchestrating and planning their mildly dubious-borderline illegal plans as teenagers in the Outer Banks. Routledge, Maybank and Carrera tell me countless of stories of how Heyward would panic about their antics, and then be the one planning everything and acting as lookout. He’s also the first to draw on someone’s face when they’re passed out. Heyward rubs the side of his neck, looking rather embarrassed.

The group follows very simple rules: everything is free for all, except for a few select items like Carrera’s kombuchas or the latest book Heyward is reading. They share clothing – Maybank wears a crewneck sweatshirt with the name John B. embroidered on the back, Carrera steals one of Maybank’s shirts and wears it as a dress, Routledge steals one of Carrera’s sleeping masks for himself, and Heyward wears a pair of Maybank’s boxer shorts religiously, even when the owner calls him out on it.

They eat each other’s food often – just randomly take bites of each other’s meals or steal a handful of fries off someone’s plate. Sometimes this will cause Carrera to swat one of them with her hand, but more often than not the other person just sighs and then enacts retribution moments later.

They bicker often – it’s playful, familiar bickering, thankfully. I’m glad not to be on a bus with a band on the verge of breaking up or filled with internal tension. They swipe at each other and make sarcastic comments, and whenever they make a comment, they think is too biting they engulf the other Pogue in a hug or bump their hips together. Maybank often tugs at one of Carrera’s curls and starts fiddling with it. She normally lets him, and often times he gets so carried away her hair will be littered with various small braids throughout (I notice that this occurs not only when he annoys her). Heyward will make his apologises to someone by offering to take their driving shift – they all alternated once every two hours or so. Routledge will cook their favourite meal or make a batch of brownies and save an extra slice for the aggrieved individual (they all swarm like flies to any sweets within their vicinity – they’re like vultures. “Every man for himself in the jungle,” Maybank informs me, shrugging.).

There are few activities anyone does individually, besides driving. They do everything together. At six am, every morning without fail, Carrera will drag Maybank out of bed – even when I can hear him groaning and complaining from my room – and then they’ll go on a 2 to 3 mile run. More often than not in the night, after we’ve stopped, Carrera leads the boys in a yoga session. Routledge is surprisingly flexible.

“Very Zen,” he tells me, smirking and dodging expertly when Carrera throws a pillow at him.

I catch Carrera teaching Heyward – but more often Maybank – how to create the various bracelets that litter her wrist. Apparently, she’s been making them friendship bracelets since the tenth grade. Heyward and Routledge have had theirs replaced over the years – because they lost them while surging – but I catch sight of one on Maybank’s wrist that looks weathered and close to the point of simply falling apart.

In a way, it’s quite easy to categorize them: they’re kids. They don’t all have their shit together, which is fine, but they are having fun, and they adjust well to having an outsider live with them and observe their day to day interactions. The more time I spend with them, the more it strikes me just how young they all are, and how much they’ve experienced in the industry already.

It’s nice to see that seeing the very worst – like Ward and Rafe Cameron – has not stripped them of their love for the music itself, and their willingness to continue.

--

IT’S DIFFICULT to describe The Pogues music in a singular category.

“It was hard for us,” Heyward tells me as he balances his guitar on his lap. “To figure out what we wanted to sound like.”

They’d all come to play their instruments in vastly different ways. Carrera had been signed up to play piano when she was six, and soon learned to pick up the ukulele afterwards. “It was a kook thing at first,” she tells me. “Having your kid play an instrument.” It was lucky she actually enjoyed it.

Routledge’s mother had left behind her guitar before she left the family when Routledge was a young child. He found it around the time he was ten, and he begged and pleaded with his father enough that he got one of the neighbours to teach his son. “I only found out later that he sold one of his father’s watches to pay for the lessons,” he confesses. Routledge’s father passed away during his freshman year, leaving him in the custody of his Uncle T.

Maybank, like Carrera, can play multiple instruments. “I flunked out of school, pretty much,” he tells me. “I guess this is how I make up for it.” Carrera flicks him on his cheek when he says that, frowning. His love for drums was something born out of his pent-up energy. “I used to bang on everything – my pen on my desk, my hands on the railings. It annoyed everyone, especially my dad. But I couldn’t help it.” Something washes over his face when he says this. The emotion vanishes before I can pursue it.

“I found a pair of drumsticks near the trash yard where my Dad worked,” he says. “For years I used to bang around on Tupperware’s and glasses, trying to make a beat.”

“It was surprisingly charming,” Carrera tells me. Later on, she shows me a video of Maybank in the eighth grade, doing just that. It’s heartwarming to see, this smaller version of Maybank banging around on old tupperwares, his face narrowed in concentration as he bites down on his lip. I can hear Carrera giggling a bit in the background.

 When I ask how he managed to get a hold of a proper drum set, something in his face tightens. “Kie had a bake sale at the Kook Academy in tenth grade,” he says vaguely. Carrera appears by his side after he says this, her expression soft. “I stole some of the money I made to buy a second hand set I saw at a garage sale.” Something tells me there’s more to the story, but I don’t press.

Heyward learned how to play guitar mostly from watching Routledge. He saved up enough to buy some of the better music producing software on his laptop. “I used to mix anything,” he says. “I’d record everywhere I went – to the beach, working with my dad at the shop. They thought it was just a hobby, some weird tic I had, but I loved it.” He lets me listen to one of the older mixes – there’s the crash of the waves, the sound of laughter, bits and pieces of conversation repeated in various beats. This is charming too.

They started to record stuff in the eleventh grade, after they’d formed a band the previous summer. They managed to find old, thrown away equipment to use, and built a studio at Routledge’s house from his dad’s study. None of them knew how to write a song.

“We tried,” Carrera tells me, shaking her head at the memories. “But God they were awful.”

“Remember ‘Only Child?’” Maybank’s asks her, grinning when she scowls.

“Yeah, okay, ‘Blue Eyes’,” she retorts. These are songs, I am told by Heyward, that will never ever see the light of day. I suspect that they all wrote somewhat embarrassing songs because Routledge and Heyward keep quiet.

“Blue eyes?” I ask Heyward. “Seriously?”

“What can I say?” he returns, preening. He places his hands under his chin. “They really are gorgeous.”

            They wrote their first proper song – which turned out to be the song which would make them famous – Are you bored yet? – on John B.’s boat, a small, old little thing called the HMS Pogue.

            “It was a long day in the summer,” Routledge recounts, smiling at the memory. “And, I don’t know, I think Kie started humming, muttering the sounds to the chorus. We all chipped in, wrote the verses on an old receipt I found on the boat.” He chuckles. “Finding a pen that minute was the hardest thing, ours hands were trembling so much we couldn’t even type.”

            “I think out of all the songs we’ve ever written,” Heyward says later. “That’s the one I’ll always remember the most.”

            Routledge and Carrera share lead vocals on the song. It’s a fusion of alternative-rock/alternative-pop/alternative-country that surprisingly worked and helped shape the rest of their sound. The chorus goes: And we could stay at home and watch the sunset/but I can’t help from asking are you bored yet? The simple premise of friends being ready to go home after hanging out turned into a song about fearing a relationship was soon going to end, but it’s still surprisingly upbeat. After all, the viral video of them singing the song, Routledge and Carrera dancing and twirling on stage (which I later find out is at the Wreck) and Maybank and Heyward jumping up and down while playing the guitar is what made them famous, and what caught the eye of Ward Cameron, who had been vacationing on Figure Eight and witnessed the performance, along with his son, daughter and wife.

            The rest of their self-titled EP, consisting of eight songs- including Are You Bored Yet? -- (which still total under 30 minutes, though barely) follows along their alternative rock/indie/pop fusion.

            “A lot of the songs we wrote after we signed our contract with Cameron,” Heyward tells me. They all grow quiet at the mention of their nemesis. “A lot of songs we wrote and tuned up afterwards.”

            Dog Days Are Over signals their sudden luck, their growing status in the world and how scary that all seemed.

            “It became obvious rather quickly that what we stood for, and what Ward Cameron stood for, were two very different things,” Routledge allows, hands curling into fists on his lap. “And I think that’s reflected in the song.”

            Which, upon close analysis, is true. “Leave all your love and your loving behind,” Routledge sings. “You can’t carry it with you if you want to survive.” They all helped write this song, along with Yellow.

            “We were on the docks when we wrote that,” Carrera recalls. “And we looked up at the sky, at the stars, and the line look at the stars, look how they shine for you just popped up in JJ’s head and it all spiralled from there.”

            Often times, the song starts as an idea with one of them, and they bring it to each other, and develop it. When I ask if they’ve ever fought over what lyric sounds best, Carrera laughs.

            “Yeah,” she says, glancing at Maybank. “We have.”

            Apparently, there was a debate with a song she initially conceived – Summer Sunshine -- and which is included on the  EP, with her on most of the vocals. It’s a fun, light record about summer love, but – “that’s the one we fought a lot about in terms of how it sounded.” She doesn’t say who won the argument, but during their first concert, it’s the song she smiles in the most as she sings. Surprisingly, Maybank can play the tin whistle.

            “JJ can learn how to play any instrument, crazy fast,” Routledge says, shaking his head, though there’s a glint of pride in his eye. “It’s insane.”

            It’s Time was written by the band during their legal battle with Cameron, which led to further investigation into the recording mogul’s activities. It’s a song filled with the drums and the mandolin, and Routledge tells me it’s the song he’s most looking forward to singing live.

            True enough, when the time for their first set arrives and the song starts to play, I catch sight of Routledge’s bright smile as the audience overpowers the vocals, and he stops to listen to their fans scream the lyrics back at them: “This road never looked so lonely / this house never burned down slowly, to ashes/ to ashes/ It’s time to begin, isn’t it” . They all seem mesmerized by the extremity of their fan’s voices. I can’t help but video it and show it to them after the show.

            Sweater Weather was written primary by Maybank and Heyward, and it’s one of two songs on the EP in which Maybank sings prominently. It oozes sex appeal and innuendos, and watching the blonde star sings it makes me understand why there’s a twitter account named after his abs. But if Sweater Weather plays into his public persona as another one of the internet’s boyfriends, Demons unveils his vulnerability. It’s the sole song on the EP which is written entirely by one member.

            Maybank’s eyes are glossed over when I ask him about it.

            “It was a song I needed to write,” he confesses, fiddling with a button on the keyboard. “It was after our case with Cameron was over about our contract and we were released, and after all the other stuff about him had come out.”

            For those who don’t know, it was discovered that Ward Cameron had been actively stealing money from all of his young clients for decades. In addition to that, he was found guilty of assault and conspiring to commit assault against those music acts who attempted to leave his label and his competition. Rafe Cameron had ordered a hit on Susan Peterkin because her label was their main competition, and her surviving led to the father/son duo being caught and imprisoned. They pled guilty fast in light of all the evidence against them.

            “It was fucked,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Completely fucked. And it kind of felt like everything was falling apart at the seams.” He gulps loudly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “But more than that, it was a song I wrote for the people I love.”

            I sense there’s more to the story than that, but I leave it alone for now. The lyrics are personal enough that I don’t want to push too much: “I want to hide the truth/ I want to shelter you/ But with the beast inside/ There's nowhere we can hide/ No matter what we breed/ We still are made of greed/ This is my kingdom come/ This is my kingdom come/ When you feel my heat/ Look into my eyes/ It's where my demons hide.”

            Light On is the final song on the EP, written as a thank you song to all the fans who had stood by them, all the people who had believed in them throughout everything. Carrera takes lead vocals on this one, and I have to admit it’s perhaps by favourite song of theirs. “It can be interpreted differently by everyone,” she says, shrugging a little. “But for us, it’s for them.” It also reflects a little of the instability they felt about their music career. “If you keep reaching out / then I’ll keep coming back/ but if you’re gone for good, then I’m okay with that/ if you leave the light on, then I’ll leave the light on”. It’s a stark reminder of how shaky everything felt for them until they were signed by Peterkin.

            They work a lot on their upcoming album throughout the day and night and are kind enough to let me in on their sessions. They don’t let me record then, but it’s fun to watch them all in action as they practice their craft. They all take the lead on things they feel most passionately about. They have their unproductive days for certain. There was one memorable occasion where they all decided to play Pictionary instead, and it ended with Heyward and Routledge dancing in victory while Carrera and Maybank glared at them and gave them the silent treatment for two hours. Because apparently, they’re still children.

            They have fun making the music, that much is true. Carrera likes to take photos of them all with her phone, and Routledge likes to do the same with his polaroid camera. He likes to write down the date on the bottom of each one. But there’s also a seriousness that comes to them when they’re all writing a song, or when Heyward is trying out different tempos or rhythms to try and figure out which one works the best.  

They all love the music – the writing, the singing, the melodies – but it is Maybank who cares the most about each individual element. It’s carefully hidden, his perfectionism, but once noticed it never fades. There is never a single beat, note or rhythm that he doesn’t approve. It’s almost as though he contains all of his pent-up energy and pours it into the music-making process. He and Heyward collaborate heavily in the producing process.

“I don’t know,” he says, when asked. “I guess – for the longest time, I thought music was the only thing I was good at.” He pauses, considers something. “Besides surfing, I guess. Being good with this kind of thing compensated for everything else.”

When Carrera catches wind of this conversation, something in her expression falters. “Oh JJ,” she murmurs, as if they’ve had this kind of conversation before. It’s another reminder that their friendship is more than just laughter, that there is space for vulnerability and truth.

The Pogues formed because of a shared love for music; the Pogues came together because of their love for each other.

            --

ROMANCE? Everyone on the internet has been speculating about internal love triangles within the group dynamic. Some ‘ship’ Routledge and Carrera, Carrera and Maybank (known as Jiara), Carrera and Heyward, Heyward and Maybank.

When the latter learns of the fan’s obsession with him and Heyward, he plants several wet kisses onto his friend’s cheeks. “Oh, honey bun,” he sighs, twisting Heyward’s cheek.

“Fuck off,” Heyward grumbles, though afterwards even he cracks a smile.

Later on, Heyward informs me that he is in fact bisexual, but that “I love JJ, but no.”

Maybank gasps. “Aren’t I handsome enough for you Pope?”

Heyward laughs. “Not quite.”

He isn’t dating someone at the moment.

When I ask if any of them have ever dated each other, Routledge answers straight away: “No Pogue on Pogue macking. Strict rules.”

It’s a stark disappointment for their thousands of fans, but there are lines even I am not willing to push.

Maybank and Routledge both identify as straight but offer no more than that in terms of their love life. Carrera sighs a little when I ask, as if disappointed. “I’m pansexual,” she informs me, folding her arms in front of her chest, as if to protect herself. I don’t mean to pry too much into their lives.

“It’s just – that’s what everyone assumes,” Carrera says. “Whenever a girl is close friends with guys, everyone is like oh, she must have slept with all of them. Which, you know, obviously anyone can fuck whoever they want or as many people as they want – with consent and protection, obviously – but it’s just infuriating. And then there’s that whole, we got to protect Kie all the time and act like my bodyguards or I have to be the one in charge and make sure they don’t get too drunk or too high or some shit. It’s insane.”

I later find out that the reason Maybank punched that one male was because he assaulted Carrera.

Heyward and Routledge both place hands on her shoulders as she prepares to talk about it. Maybank sits by her feet, and for once her hands are playing with his hair instead, her legs slung over his shoulders.

“Yeah,” she says faintly. “I don’t know, we were in the crowd and he was entitled enough to think that grabbing my ass and then my tit was okay. I slapped him and then JJ saw.” She shrugs. “I was pissed, not with the guy, but with JJ too. It was like fuck him for being such an asshole, but also like I don’t need someone to come protecting me and fighting my battles, you know? It was just really fucked – and the violence too. That was a problem.”

They all grow quiet.

“I had undiagnosed ADHD for a while,” Maybank tells me. “It’s why I have so much pent up energy. There were other stuff going on in my childhood too that made me have trouble with sorting through my shit. After that incident, I went to therapy.”

He winks at me and waves finger guns. “Here’s to normalizing therapy, bitches!”

The other three chuckle.

“But honestly though,” Maybank says. “Therapy helps a lot.”

Now that he’s mentioned it, it does make sense. Carrera forcing him for runs every morning is to help channel some of his energy, especially since they’re all cooped up in the bus. The yoga helps relax him – which they all started doing in order to keep him company. The bracelets. The fact that some nights he disappears onto his bunk bed earlier than the others and closes the shutter so he can talk to his therapist.

But it’s not all heaviness with the Pogues. They are twenty-one-year old’s, after all. They play in packed dive bars and concert halls with low heady lights and thick, hot air, and it’s all intoxicating. I get caught up in it too – and when I wake one morning with a pounding headache and the taste of vomit still lingering on my tongue, it’s to find Maybank and Carrera sitting at the kitchen table, her feet on his lap.

She laughs at the sight of me. “Advil’s on the table.” It’s infuriating that she’s put together, but I’m comforted when Routledge and Heyward cry at the first sight of the sun.

There is romance in their lives. One day, a month or so into our trip, we stop in California for one of their sets. It’s one of their most packed concerts, and from my place backstage I see them all dripping with sweat, Maybank crushing a bottle of water with his hands after he finishes gulping it all down. There’s a girl waiting on the other side of the backstage, watching Routledge. He disappears with her shortly after the set is done, and I don’t think too much of it because I’m swept away by the other three and the resounding applause by the audience after they played on of their newly recorded songs for their upcoming album: Ain’t It Fun (which is a song about the realities of growing up).  

The next morning, I’m one of the first ones up and I stumble into the kitchen at the crack of dawn to find Sarah Cameron – international pop star (singer of Love Story and I love you like a love song), daughter of the disgraced Ward Cameron – by the coffee pot, wearing one of Routledge’s? t-shirts. The man in question is sitting in one of the chairs, watching her with a smile on his face. They pause at the sight of me, as if surprised – which, really? If you’re going to keep your relationship private, don’t bring your girlfriend on the same bus as a reporter. The fact that they did this though, makes me think that they didn’t really mind.

“Hey,” I say nervously, because what else can I possibly say.

Routledge looks from me, to Cameron and back again. Finally, he shrugs.

“Oops,” he says. “Guess the cat’s out of the bag.”

Later, I can’t help but ask her about the whole dynamic.

She looks me dead in the eye as she says responds, and I know – and respect – that this is the first and last time she will ever speak of it.

“I love my dad,” she says. “And my brother. But they did bad things, and now they’re paying for them. Justice was served.”

There’s a moment before she smiles.

“Did you hear that John B. is writing a song for me?” she asks. “That will add some spice to your article.”

            I hadn’t learnt that actually, despite being let in on a lot of their sessions. Later, when the album booklet for The Cut is released, I scrawl through the song list for dedications. Under the song Hesitate, the sole record released by the Pogues to be entirely written by Routledge, he writes Val, I won’t hesitate for you. It’s a sweeping love song with surprising sincerity and depth for a twenty-one-year old.

            Cameron stays with us for a week, appearing behind stage with various disguises. Her codename? Val, hence the use in the album booklet. She fits in well with the rest of the Pogues, indicating that they’ve been together long enough in order for them to get used to one another and develop genuine affection for each other.

            “It wasn’t easy at first,” Cameron informs me. “We all came from really different backgrounds. And I was just really blind to what my dad was doing. I didn’t even realize what it was like for smaller artists who didn’t have ties in the music industry. They opened my eyes to well, pretty much everything.”

            Comments from the other Pogues confirm this narrative.

            “Sarah was good for us too,” Heyward says. “Showed us that rich people could still be decent and do the right thing. Kind of softened the us vs them narrative.”

            Carrera reveals that there was actually more tension between her and Cameron then there was with the popstar and everyone else.

            “It was weird,” she says. “And I was being a bit of a bitch about it, to be quite honest. Even before Cameron showed his true colours, I didn’t trust her. I guess it was a bit of possessiveness, which is fucked.”

            I question her more about that.

            “I mean, for so long I was the only girl in their lives, you know? I guess I kind of internalized that and felt a bit threatened, especially because of my kook year. But we got over it, and now Sarah and I are super close.” This is true. I catch them painting each other’s nails more afternoons than I can count, and one night they even drunkenly clutch onto each other, claiming that the other was the prettiest girl in the whole world, and crying when the other refuted it. They even fell asleep in Routledge’s bunk once, kicking the boy out, which he grumbles about for days. They also get tattoos together during one of our stops.

            I learn more about her so-called kook year.

            “My parents sent me to the private school on Figure Eight,” she informs me, mouth twisting.

            “We didn’t go there,” Heyward says.

            Carrera chuckles, though it doesn’t match her eyes. “I promised the boys I wouldn’t forget them, that we’d still be friends, but I got sucked into it. When you’re the outsider and then suddenly you’re accepted, it’s a hard thing to let go of. Soon enough I stopped going fishing with the boys or hanging out at the Chateau and became a cheerleader and went to yacht parties instead.”

            This took place during freshmen year, the year Routledge’s father died. I learn from them all that this was what triggered Carrera to forsake her newfound lifestyle and return to the Pogues a few weeks after the funeral. But it wasn’t Routledge who had the hardest time forgiving her. It was Maybank.

            Maybank leaves for another run when we begin this discussion.

            “JJ doesn’t trust people easily,” Carrera informs me. Maybank tells me later that like Routledge, his mother had split too when he was a kid. I find out more about his father later, as does the rest of the world. “When I broke my promise, it hurt him, especially since we were so close before freshmen year. It took a long time to convince him I wasn’t going to leave again, that I was here to stay. I think it too longer than either of us wanted to admit, even when the tension and anger was gone.”

            Heyward tells me about Maybank’s reaction when Carrera got him that drum set.

            “He was angry,” he says. “People on The Cut don’t want charity, and for him that’s what it felt like. I think – we were all hurt when Kie had her kook year, but JJ took it the hardest, even though it didn’t seem like it.”

            He ended up keeping the drums, but they made sure not to leave the two alone for a few weeks. When Maybank returns from his run around an hour later, sweat soaked and panting, he engulfs Carrera into a hug from behind, buries his face in her shoulder.

            When I ask when Carrera thinks Maybank grew to fully trust her again, it’s more recent than I was expecting.

            “Last summer,” she says. “We spent a lot of time together.”

--

            AFTER they had been released from their contract with Cameron by the courts last June, they all did their own thing for a little while. Pope resumed summer school classes at the program he had begun after high school. “I needed that,” he says. “It kept my mind busy and helped me destress.” Does he plan to finish his degree? “I deferred my next year,” he says, shrugging. “I’ll see how I feel when the time comes.”

Routledge went to spend some time with Sarah.

            “She needed me,” he says, then pauses. “We needed each other.”

            That left Maybank and Carrera to their own devices. Their solution? Travel.

            “We had our money from the singles given to us,” she says. “Maybe we should have put all of it into a savings account. We didn’t.”

            Her parents put up little opposition. “They felt guilty, I think,” Carrera tells me. “They were the ones who pushed us to sign with Cameron.” Not that any opposition would have stopped her.

            Her and Maybank went to Greece, where they spent a long amount of time island hopping. Carrera shows me a few pictures from the trip – her and Maybank sun burnt and covered in sea salt, by the acropolis, trying various seafoods, jumping off rocks into clear blue water.                    

            “It was great,” Carrera says. She looks at Maybank, who instinctively seems to realize and looks back at her. “I mean, we let the music kind of slip to the back of our minds for a bit and just had fun.”

            When I ask if any of their music for their upcoming album was inspired by that time, Maybank laughs.

            “Yeah,” he says, blue eyes dancing with mirth, with some secret joke I don’t quite get and probably never will. “Something like that.”

--

            MUSIC for their first album comes fast. It’s as if they’ve all buried away a lot of their energy and now that their EP is out, they’re letting it burst like a dam. The project, now known as The Cut, follows the same musical sound as their EP though with a little less of the cohesiveness. “Each song has its own particular sound,” Heyward tells me. “Trying to make them into something it’s not would be a crime.”

            For the first time they enlist outside help, which comes in the form of Sarah Cameron. She even has a feature on the album for the track, Love You For A Long Time, in which she shares lead vocals with Carrera. Their voices blend together nicely, with soaring high notes and beautiful harmonies with lyrics like – And in the morning when I’m waking up / I swear that you’re the first thing that I’m thinking of / I feel it in my body / know it in my mind oh I, / I’m going to love you for a long time.

            “Careful Vlad,” Cameron says after they finish recording, nudging her boyfriend’s hip. “I’m out for your job.”

            Even Heyward is convinced to share vocals on a track, though his capacity is that of a rapper. He and Maybank share vocals on that the track called Magic in the Hamptons. The track is, quite simply, about a guy who meets a girl in the Hamptons. They dance in the studio as they record it – You know where I go when we're dancing/ Handshakes in The Hamptons and gettin' drunk in the mansions with you/ And you look so classic, come through with that magic/ You know that I'm 'bout to smash it, it's true.

            They’re one of the few bands who could pull off having a song like Love You for A Long Time and Magic in the Hamptons in the same album. It’s one of those songs they have the most fun performing – even if Heyward throws up before the concert and Maybank, Routledge and Carrera have to give him a group hug to calm down. Physical affection is a common thing for the Pogues – the boys all alternate giving Carrera piggyback rides, which she obtains simply by saying “Up” and latching onto the boy closest to her. They pick her up without question, Maybank even once doing so when he had a coffee mug in his hand. They passed it between them without one having to even ask.

            They all hug and even hold hands, sometimes even falling asleep in the same bunk together. It’s Maybank and Carrera I find doing this most often, though that’s because they’re binge watching the same show.

The rest of the album alternates between fast, energetic songs like Sex or Teenage Dream to slower tunes like Sweet Creature or Hesitate. They plan to include the songs from their EP in the album.

“Is it weird?” I ask. “Deciding who sings what?”

“Not really,” Heyward says. “It all kind of falls into place naturally. They’re songs where just one person sings because it means the most to them, if that makes sense. It’s their truth, like with Hesitate or Demons.”

They don’t let me in to all of their sessions or let me here the final product of each song. I only hear early demos from the production process, that’s all. They all venture into the studio sometimes by themselves. One day, with the door to the studio left open, I can hear someone strumming the guitar.

I move to the door, catch sight of Maybank hunched over, electric guitar in hand.

“Dive bar on the East Side, where you at?” he croons. Pauses abruptly, scratches at something in a notebook, then continues : “Phone lights up my nightstand in the black. Come here, you can meet me in the back. Dark jeans and your Nikes look at you, Oh damn, never seen that color blue, Just think of the fun things we could do - 'Cause I like you. This ain't for the best. My reputation's never been worse, so you must like me for me. Yeah, I want you -
We can't make any promises now, can we, babe?  But you can make me a drink. Is it cool that I said all that? Is it chill that you're in my head?  'Cause I know that it's delicate (delicate). Is it cool that I said all that?  Is it too soon to do this yet? 'Cause I know that it's delicate?  Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it? Isn't it? Delicate. Third floor on the West Side, me and you, gorgeous, you’re mansion with a view - Do the guys round the world touch you like I do?”

            I retreat from the door. Later on, I catch Maybank and Carrera sitting at the kitchen counter. The latter has on a pair of massive headphones and bobs along to the music. There’s a smile on her face. Heyward and Routledge are hanging out by the fridge.

            “Isn’t it?” they all sing, dancing. “Isn’t it, delicate?”

            Carrera shows me pages of the notebook she uses for song writing. It’s mostly just pages of songs they’ve already released, others she wrote back in high school or during the time I’ve spent with them. There’s one that catches my attention.

            “Cruel Summer?” I ask.

            Carrera laughs, brushes a curl behind her ear.

            “Yeah,” she says. “I was going to show it to the boys later.”

            They’ve become a little more secretive with their recording sessions, but they let me listen to Carrera in the studio.

            “And I screamed, ‘for whatever it’s worth, I love you, ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard?” she sings. “He looks up grinning like a devil it’s new, the shape of your body, it’s blue, and it’s ooh, whoa oh, it’s a cruel summer.”

            It ventures closer to the pop side than any of their previous tracks but – “I’m proud of it,” Carrera says. She watches me closely as she says this, as if expecting me to question her further. Her and Maybank work close together on the track’s sound, and I find that not only do they bicker often, but that in occasions like those, even the democratic Carrera turns into something like a dictator.

            “Yeah,” Heyward says, shaking his head. “Kie gets like that sometimes.”

--

            IT’S AFTER one of their performances in New York where we catch wind of Luke Maybank’s dealings with the press. We’re in their dressing room, tv on after the show, and suddenly the news reporter is cutting to Outer Banks North Carolina. I can faintly see the resemblance between the two men, though the older Maybank has red-rimmed eyes and greying hair, a few scars littering his cheek.

            “He’s good for nothing,” the man says. “My son is nothing but trouble – a hooligan for all of those around him. He stole money off me, never gave it back even though he’s probably a millionaire by now—”

            “What the fuck?” Carrera snarls, turning the tv off.

            Maybank looks stunned. He manages to take a few glances around the room and then promptly runs off. Carrera is the one who chases after him. Routledge is clutching onto the counter so tightly I can see his knuckles turn white. Heyward’s jaw is so clenched I fear he’s about to grind his teeth to the dirt.

            It’s my job as a reporter to ask these questions – to probe and investigate scandals, but even I know better than to push too much on what is clearly fragile ground. We return to the tour bus and I hear Routledge and Heyward talk quietly amongst themselves and make a few phone calls.

            When I wake the next morning, I find all the Pogues gathered in the kitchen, joined by who I recognise to be Susan Peterkin. She stops whatever she was saying at the sight of me. Even though we exchanged a few emails before I started this assignment, her glare is frosty, her stance protective.

            I ask Maybank if he’s alright, if there’s anything he wants to say for the article and Peterkin cuts in with a sharp – “That’s enough.”

            When the Pogues filter away to the back to get some rest, Peterkin corners me.

            “They’re still kids,” she says, dark eyes staring me down. “They’re real people, with feelings, and they’ve already faced too much shit and exploitation. If I catch wind of you snooping around or making someone uncomfortable, I’ll send you packing, understood?”

            Scared shitless, I agree, and instantly she seems to relax just a little. I’m not made privy to the conversations The Pogues had with Peterkin or the decisions they made. It’s not my business. But what I do know – as does the rest of the people following the story – is that shortly after Luke Maybank’s public denunciation of his son, a series of documents are released to the press regarding DCS, how JJ Maybank was placed into the custody of Heyward’s parents because his father was found to be an unfit and abusive parent. It’s shocking news – heartbreaking even, and Maybank spends a few days keeping to himself after the papers are leaked.

            They don’t talk about it in front of me and I don’t push. But it’s unnerving not having Maybank’s laughter in the background or the sound of him bickering with Carrera, Routledge or Heyward. They all seem more subdued. Maybank spends a lot of time in the studio, having been let off his driving duties for a few days.

            The product of his time there results in Before You Go. I hear it at the first concert they have following the scandal. The lights dim on the stage before focusing solely on Maybank, who clutches a classical guitar.

            “Hi,” he says into the microphone. The fans quieten. “This is a song I wrote over the past few days. I hope you like it.” He exhales, adjusts the straps and begins. If Demons showcased his vulnerability, Before You Go rips out his heart and bares it for the world. The chorus goes: “So, before you go / was there something I could have said to make your heart beat better? / If only I had known you had a storm to weather / So, before you go / was there something I could have said to make it all stop hurting / it kills me how your mind can make you feel so worthless / so, before you go.”

            He keeps his eyes closed for the performance and after he strums the final note they look suspiciously glassy. The revelations about his childhood trauma gives songs more context. They reveal – especially Demons – a fear of becoming the person whose demons consumed them so greatly they became violent, and a confusion if there’s anything a loved one could have done to help.

            It’s a vulnerable moment if there ever was one, and I am not alone in swiping my eyes. We all assume they’ll call it a night after that, but I’m surprised to find Maybank conversing with Routledge, Heyward and Carrera, gesturing back to the stage as if to get back on. The fans scream a little when they all return, the lights returning. My interest is piqued when Maybank and Carrera step up to the pike, the former now clutching an electric guitar.

            They glance back at Routledge and Heyward and exchange nods.

            Maybank and Carrera lean in: “I want you to want me –” They’re deafened by the sudden onslaught of shrieks, and even I can’t help but clap and sing the lyrics.

--

            WE END our trip back in North Carolina, having toured across the country and back. They take me to their hometown for, as Routledge puts it, “A once and a lifetime experience.” I agree, mostly because it’ll be nice to put a picture to something I’ve heard about so often.         

            My first impression is that they weren’t overexaggerating about the economic discrepancies. We forsake the tour bus – which even I have difficulty parting with – for the beatlesque minivan I saw three months ago that belongs to Routledge. He drives me through the figure eight – a lot of mansions and fancy cars – and then they take me to the Cut, which is filled of small houses, most visibly deteriorating.

            It’s incredibly hot in August, and they take me out on the HMS Pogues, though not before they call Peterkin to ask if they’d be held criminally responsible if something were to happen to me.

            “Something about insurance,” Maybank’s shrugs.

            After Routledge assures me that we’ll be fine, we take off. It’s interesting to see the Pogues in their natural habitat. Music is something they love yes, performing is something they enjoy, but they’re just at ease out on the water with a fishing line, music playing in the background. The next day, they take me to watch them surf, and I discover that Routledge wasn’t kidding when he said Maybank was the best surfer he knew.

            Carrera forces them all to put on sunscreen before they disappear into the water, and I spend a few hours editing on my laptop and watching them surf. They’re all knocked down by waves, but they always emerge, smiling and shaking their heads.

            They take me to the Boneyard, a place where the kids on the Cut hold their parties, which are usually crashed by ‘Tourons’ – tourists from the mainland – and kooks looking for some weed. They don’t take me to one of these parties.

            “Nope,” Heyward says. “Someone will definitely get injured, and we don’t need that. You’ve almost survived – let’s keep you in one piece for the rest of the day, huh?”

            I laugh, but I don’t think he’s entirely joking. Instead, they reveal that they’re expected to perform at the Wreck this fine evening.

            “My parents asked,” Carrera informs me. She lets me stay in her house since they have a spare room and the boys abscond – Heyward to visit his parents with Maybank joining him, Routledge to spend some time with his uncle. Cameron is supposed to arrive at a later ferry.

            To those curious, Luke Maybank was on a fishing trip when we visited. Peterkin checked.

            Carrera’s parents are polite, if overtly formal. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been leaving with a bunch of twenty-one-year olds for the past month whose main source of sustenance was craft dinner or brownies. But anyways, we make introductions and they tell me not to worry when I thank them for letting me into their home. Carrera leads me to my room and then lets me settle in.

            I fall asleep about an hour before the set is meant to begin. Carrera, to my surprise, is wearing a well fitted summer dress and has her makeup done – which she usually does for a concert anyway.

            “My mom bought it,” she tells me, shrugging.

            Seeing that makes me drag out some of my more formal clothing from the bottom of my suitcase that I had long since forgotten about, since I’d never needed it really. We drive to the Wreck and we find Routledge, Heyward, Maybank and Cameron carrying the equipment out of the van.

            I leave them to it, and Carrera’s parents feed me some of their most popular dishes which I devour.

            “Kiara can actually cook quite well,” her mother informs me. “Though I imagine it’s hard to do so on a tour bus.”

            That would be an understatement.

            Soon enough, the set starts, the restaurant is packed with locals, and I’m struck by a sense of sadness in my gut. It’s been an interesting summer, for one, and I quite strangely don’t want it to end. In some ways, returning to their home, where they aren’t treated any differently, where we aren’t all crammed inside a tour bus makes me feel as though the trip hasn’t even started.

            They all file out from the kitchen area; the instruments having been set up before they let in the evening rush. There is whoops from the crowd as Carrera steps up to the microphone. She touches it with her hand to make sure it’s on.

            “Hey guys,” she says, flashing the customers a smile. “A year ago we sang this song, and it changed our whole lives. I hope you guys enjoy it.”

            She grabs a hold of her microphone and steps back, Routledge stepping up to his own microphone as Heyward and Maybank grab a hold of their guitars. Cameron sits next to me, steals a bite off of my plate.

            “Gosh,” she says, red-cheeked and gorgeous, “it’s been an interesting summer, hasn’t it?”

            “Yeah,” I reply, watching as Routledge and Carrera hold hands and dance around each other without a care in the world, like they were a little over a year ago, singing about staying at home and watching the sunset. “It really was.”

            This could be the end of our story, and it almost is. After they finish their set and disappear off to the back, I go to find them. Carrera’s parents direct me to the office near the bank. I have to shuffle past waiters and chefs, all who cast me annoyed and curious looks.

            I reach the end of the hall and push open the door, only to find Carrera with her legs wrapped around Maybank’s hips, kissing him fiercely.

            “What the fuck?” I can’t help but say.

            They both pull apart, turn to look at me. Maybank reluctantly sets her back on the ground, his lips red and swollen.

I look from Maybanks, to Carrera and back again.

“When did this happen?” I ask, undeniably confused. “When did you guys—”

Maybanks smirks.

“Fourth grade,” he says, bringing his beer to his lips.

Carrera smacks him on the shoulder.

“JJ,” she admonishes. “We’re not having a contest over who’s had feelings the longest.”

I look at her.

She shrugs.

“A while,” Carrera admits, brushing a curl away from her face.

“What about no Pogue-on-Pogue macking?”

“She just can’t resist me,” JJ sighs. “I know, it’s a problem I’m so irresistible—”

She swats his arm again.

“Jeez, woman,” he cries, though a spark remains in his eye.

Heyward and Routledge are amused by my astonishment.

“Seriously?” the former says, incredulous. “You didn’t pick it up from – he looks up grinning like a devil? Or – “oh damn never seen that colour blue or do the guys around the world touch you like I do?”

Routledge laughs as I sputter. Now that they mention it, it’s not only obvious but makes sense. They all look at me as I struggle to form a response, Maybank’s arms draped across Carrera’s front, as if daring me to protest. It’s been there the whole time, especially in the music. Him with Delicate, her with Cruel Summer.

            Their music may be a record celebrating their friendship and the struggles they’ve all overcome – professionally and otherwise – but it’s also a love story between two of its members who decided to actually take a chance. I don’t ask them specifics – when this began, the first time, if they were worried they’d break up and cause awkwardness – and I feel as though I don’t have to.

When their feature length album, The Cut, is released, I am mesmerized by how tangible the emotions feel in the songs. It is one thing to hear about another’s life through music; it is quite another to experience it with them and hear it reflected in song. I am not a member of The Pogues, but there will always be a fond remembrance for the summer we all shared, a small tether that pulses every time I hear their songs from that album on the radio.

I don’t know what will happen to The Pogues after this. Maybe they will take their time off after their first worldwide tour. Maybe they’ll never write or record a song again. Maybe they’ll retreat to the marshes in North Carolina, where they all became family. To quote the ever-optimistic Carrera, “the world is our horizon”.

This, I do know; once a Pogue, always a Pogue, and even if music no longer holds them together, the bonds of their friendship always will.

            Wheezie Carmen has been a writer for the Rolling Stones for the past two years, fulfilling a lifelong dream of hers. Her other works in music journalism have appeared in The Times and The Guardian.