These are the films of the day, the smoky curtains and the blurriness of the nights -- as much the drunken ones as the dry ones. These are the looks, the side glances and the deep stares. These are the impressions of fingers pressed into arms and the meat of the back of people you're trying to keep close to you, to keep from taking off -- floating up and away. These are the impressions of fingers pressed into your arms and the meat of your back that you're hoping you can remove. They can't turn light, to red, to back to your normal tone fast enough. The music that William Doyle writes as East India Youth is of those shipwrecked moments of men and women, when new feelings are breaking through the blackness.