Long Island Sound: Therapy in The Hot Box

Just before they released their debut album, Hydra, Rob and Tim joined me for an evening at the sauna.

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Tuesday, October 29, 2024

It was the first autumnal evening of the year that saw me leave work in complete darkness. Rob was driving along Sundrive Road. His seat was reclined to the point that he looked like he was sliding around Crumlin in a luge. The orange glow of the speedometer reflected off his face as it peered over the steering wheel. The orange glow of the Dublin street lights bounced intermittently off Timmy’s face in the front passenger’s seat.

“I was meant to go to the church,” I said. I was sitting in the middle backseat, poking my head between Rob and Tim. I was one sudden break away from changing the radio station with my forehead.

“To see God again?” asked Timmy.

“Yes, to see God,” I said.

“I was meant to ask you. How is He?”

“God's good. But, my God isn't your God. Do you know what I mean? I can't tell you how your God is.”

“As long as he's well,” Tim nodded, looking out the window onto the tributaries of Sundrive Road. Rob stayed quiet and kept his eyes on the road.

“My God's well, yeah,” I said.

“It’s your new obsession,” said Timmy.

“We all need something to obsess over, you know what I mean?” I said. “It goes as far back as that time that we were talking in that living room on that blessed day when you were offering me some sort of emotional intervention in Berlin.”

“Oh yeah,” said Timmy.

“It was from that point that I really tried to express gratitude but it always felt like internally I was thanking myself for something. It felt like it was falling on deaf ears. And then I remember one night last year in Marseille, I was expressing gratitude towards something else, to some sort of inexplicable higher power.”

“Is that what you do in the church?” Timmy asked.

“Wait, have you been going to the church, Neil?” asked Rob, looking back at me in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah… But I’m certainly not Catholic. I don’t think God can be pigeonholed into religion.”

“I’m surprised to hear you’re going to a church,” said Timmy.

“Yeah, that’s what threw me,” said Rob. His wrist was resting on the steering wheel as we cruised along Davitt Road.

“Considering all of the fucking horrible things you’re aware of,” said Timmy. “The wealth and power they had, or still do have, is rotten.”

“Yeah, it’s just a nice building,” I said. “I could go to a Buddhist community centre. Have you ever believed in anything?”

“Uh...” Timmy struggled to answer.

“I think the first time people doubt God,” I said, “is when they're told that Santa isn't real because it makes them question everything. Well, why would anything I've been told be real?”

“Man,” Timmy said, “I got told that Santa wasn't real to save me from embarrassment when I went into secondary school.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I feel like that's just the parenting guidebook.”

“Especially because Tim’s an only child,” said Rob. “You're even more susceptible to that. If you have older brothers and older sisters, they're going to ruin it on you.”

“If no one told you — if you were homeschooled — you'd still be believing in Santa,” I said, excitedly.

Rob chuckled. It felt like a sympathy chuckle.

“You had to do prayers,” Tim said, “all the way through primary school and into secondary school and I remember waiting for some kind of presence that didn't arrive.”

“Presence … as in … a priest or divine presence?” I asked.

“No,” Timmy clapped back. “The priests were fucking all around the place. A divine presence was nowhere to be seen.”

A more sincere laughter filled the dark Volkswagen Golf. Rob turned onto the Tyrconnell Road.

“I was thinking,” said Timmy, “on the way from Rob's. For some reason, Berlin came into my head. And it was seven years ago that we moved over. That’s pretty fucked up.”

“Yeah,” said Rob, “it doesn’t feel that long ago.”

“You know your perception of people and how they never change?” I rhetorically asked. “I’m five years older now than you would have been in Berlin, but every time I think of a memory that I have of you from that time, I can only ever see you as two years older than me. I still think of that Berlin version of you as two years older than I am now. You know, your memory of someone will always maintain the same conditions with which the memory was formed.”

“Yeah,” Timmy huffed, looking out the front passenger window. “You always think you have everything sorted out.”

Rob turned into Goldenbridge Industrial Estate.

“What do you think's influenced your stoicism, Rob?” I asked.

“My stoicism?” Rob tried to clarify, awkwardly.

“Yeah,” I said. “What was your seminal moment in which you were taught a cruel lesson about how to process emotions?”

Rob didn’t answer. He concentrated on looking for somewhere to park instead.

“You see?” Timmy said. “He’s avoiding the question.”

“I won’t let you avoid the question, Rob,” I said.

Rob strolled into a parking spot with ease outside of Rascals. Hidden away in the corner was the shimmering glow of fairy lights being emitted from The Hot Box Sauna. We walked in, changed into our swimming shorts, before waddling out into the courtyard that was being skirted by an ensemble of saunas. We locked ourselves away in one of the saunas that looked out onto the courtyard. Each of us sat down on wooden saddles to avoid direct contact with the boiling wooden panels.

“Have you always been the stoic one?” I asked Rob, again.

“I don’t know,” Rob said. “I don’t know if I am.”

“Is it social awkwardness confused for stoicism?” I asked.

“Probably, yeah.”

“And you avoid confrontation?”

“Yeah, probably a bit of that.”

“You’ve been together for 10 years,” I stated.

“10 years gone, already,” said Timmy.

“Who is in a longer relationship? You two? Or Rob and Ellie?” I asked.

“Me and Timmy, actually,” said Rob, “but only by a month or two.”

“Has there been a point when you thought it was an unviable relationship?” I asked.

“No, nothing serious,” said Rob.

“I don’t think so, no,” said Tim.

“That’s impressive,” I said.

“I think there’s a certain amount of luck involved,” said Tim.

“There must be a bit of luck,” said Rob.

“Some of it is luck and some of it is positive reinforcement.”

The heat exposure was becoming overwhelming already. We opened the door to the welcome feeling of cold air and gingerly made our way to the plunge pools in the centre of the courtyard.

Timmy jumped into the freezing water. I slowly made my way down the steps. Rob assessed the water for a few moments with a few dips of his toe and cautiously entered.

“Sometimes,” I said to Rob, “you two make a melancholic and wistful track and I’ll think it’s Timmy’s, but it’s actually yours. Is the stoic thing all a lie? Are you actually struggling with your feelings?”

Timmy laughed.

“Maybe,” said Rob. “And maybe I don’t know it.”

“Do either of you go to therapy?” I asked.

“What?” Tim couldn’t hear through the icy cold water penetrating his skin.

“Do either of you go to therapy?” I repeated.

“I've called three times in the last week,” said Timmy.

“To therapy?” asked Rob.

“Yeah, but they haven't answered the phone.”

“They saw you coming.”

“And the voicemail that it is left, says, If you need help, we're here for you,” I joked.

“24/7,” said Rob, through jittering teeth.

“I’ve called a few times —” continued Timmy.

“I’m not staying in here,” said Rob, cutting Timmy off.

“Yeah, we can move to the other one,” I said.

Rob and I moved.

“Tim,” I said. “You can’t stay in there too long.”

“No, I won’t,” replied Timmy.

Myself and Rob entered the relatively warmer pool. Rob looked visibly more comfortable. Timmy went missing for a few moments before reappearing by one of the showers attached to the plunge pool rig. He was ready to re-enter the sauna.

“You both turned 30 in the last year,” I said, as we locked the sauna door behind us and took our seats. “Tim, you bought … you moved into a new home.”

“I certainly didn’t buy a new home,” said Timmy.

“The music is paying off,” Rob joked.

Tim laughed.

“Tell me about the evolution of your idea of Long Island Sound,” I said, “and what it is to you.”

“It kind of goes in waves,” said Timmy. “I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s changed that much over the years.”

“Ten years ago it was two mates fucking around,” I suggested. “Is it still two mates fucking around?”

“Yeah, kind of,” said Rob.

“Obviously the stakes are a little bit higher,” said Timmy, “but we still look forward to a day in the studio as much as anything else.”

“Yeah, that’s exactly it,” said Rob. “The gigs are great, but I don’t think if we’re not getting gigs that we’re going to pull the plug.”

“The way music is, it can get serious—” Timmy started.

Rob poured water over the hot coals which let out a plume of steam and sizzles.

“—Sometimes I fall into the trap of seeing it as something I do rather than enjoying the moment that I'm doing it.”

“Yeah, that’s easy to do,” said Rob.

“I’m just looking for the outcome rather than just enjoying the moment.”

“How much do you think about the butterfly effect in how you’ve done things?” I asked.

“I think of it a bit,” said Rob, “but more in a positive way. Like, moving to Berlin helped. Obviously it didn’t change anything dramatically, but we met lots of people and learned lots of things.”

“Well,” said Timmy, “during Covid, we basically did nothing. We made loads of music, but as an entity, we did nothing. I don’t think we were trying to grow, but there's always that pressure to be making use of time.”

“We thought in our head that maybe we were,” said Rob. His fringe was becoming moist and frazzled. “We were just working on our productions privately.”

“Not even just making use of time,” said Timmy, his cheeks becoming more ruddy, “but using it in a particular way to grow.”

“Does any of your time as Long Island Sound feel like an unfulfilled sacrifice?” I asked, frenetically trying to get the question out before the dead heat took the last of the air in my lungs.

“Well, you can always give it more,” said Rob, “but I don’t think we’ve given it too much.”

“Do you ever think that you didn’t need to commit so much to Long Island Sound?” I asked.

“I always think the pressure is more,” asserted Tim, “not less.”

“As you get older?”

“No, if you’re someone who wants to make money through something creative, there's always the pressure that you could be doing more.”

“Do you still feel young?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Timmy.

“Yeah?” I wasn’t convinced.

“I don’t think I feel young when I’m in a club.”

“I think that would be weird to feel young then,” said Rob.

We ambled back towards the plunge pools. We skipped the freezing pool and jumped in the relatively warm pool.

“It’s not as warm as it felt,” said Rob. He splashed water over his face.

“Of course not,” I said. “It’s the contrast.”

“Yeah.”

“How has your perception of ageing changed?” I asked.

“Ellie once asked me what my ideal way of life is,” said Timmy, scraping his hair back and behind his ears. “I told her that I wanted to do a day or two in Focus and a few days making tunes, and Ellie replied, You’re already doing that.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Your vantage point changes all the time,” said Timmy.

We hopped out of the plunge pools and walked back to the saunas. The oscillation between two extremes seems never ending.

“Let’s do a time capsule,” I said. “What does 40 look like?”

“I guess we don’t know,” said Rob.

“Of course you don’t know,” I snapped. “No one knows.”

“I think,” said Timmy, “if there were no other factors involved; relationships, family, geography... We'd probably be doing it in 10 years… We'd be doing it in 10 years… We'd be doing it in 10 years, 100% certain, I would say.”

“Yeah,” said Rob.

“I don't see us losing it. If you’re into something for 10 years —”

“You’re in it for 20? Say that to Brangelina,” I said.

“— Something would have to be seriously wrong. The more work you put into something, the more you’re not walking away.”

I stood up. I paced two steps back and forth in the sauna, with my hands on my head, opening up my lungs.

“What would you say to 20-year-old you?” I asked Rob and Tim as they remained seated. They looked back at me as if sat in a small, wooden lecture hall.

“I would honestly say,” said Timmy, “Do it the exact same as I've just done.”

“And what is the overwhelming quality that each of you possess and see in each other, that gives this so much longevity?”

“Interesting,” said Rob.

“Is it just a friendship?” I continued. “I reckon if someone went cold on the other—”

“—It would feel like a break up,” said Timmy.

“Yeah,” said Rob.

“But it’s not that it’s Rob,” said Timmy. “It’s the thing that we've made over the last 10 years that we have to continue to water. And it would be such a shame if that ended. I think it would be unlikely that either of us would find someone else that has the patience, but also can tell you straight, but also is willing to grind things out.”

Rob nodded along, looking out the large glass panel of the sauna.

“And if it doesn't work,” said Timmy, “that’s fine.”