Child to cowbells and handclaps. More noise!
Archive for August, 2009
Roiling storms on a balcony that feels like a boat, an arc, the only lovers left alive. 2004 on the stereo, which could be ’06, which could be ’08, Echoes of movement and Rapture.
I’m in Montreal in Dusty’s, thinking back. This diner is the psychological brother to Veselka’s, and when Billy Bragg bursts onto the speakers it feels like a home.
The Lady would surprise everyone.
Authenticity becomes a silly idea, a shapeless space in which the individual has to force a fit between concepts. Embracing a character, if only for a time, reframes the question of who you are.
I would later write: No names, please, just ideas.
The girl at the crossroads looks fresh, a vision in classical tones and sepia sounds. Her eyes, the very pupils, are the deepest black.
“Man, this cover, you’d love it: loads of white space and a pastiche of Line Up. You know, the Elastica album.”
Stark white space appeals to me, as does revisionism. It’s my visual default, as my aural is lo-fi and emotive.
Shelf blur is a real problem: no white space, just aggressive competing explosions of colour.
Few things are less comfortable than crossing paths with someone in a cemetery.
During breakfast at Veselka’s HST is full of wisom: “It’s just plain reckless to start this now you know. Do more. Hit the road. Fucking live a little man.”
“‘Wolf Like Me’, it’s perfect isn’t it?” Oh, yes.
It could be said I was The Idea of Kate Jackson’s fractured self-esteem, but that would be a lie.
The Idea of Kate Jackson wakes me with the crackle of assorted 12″ records and the hangover I practically demanded. Here, in the perception of a feminine idol, my life feels like a noir and I only wake in time for the matinée.
“You’ve got to believe me when I say, I never wanted to be liked”
Years after K- I would kiss a girl who tasted of blood, an act that felt like chasing whispers with my lips, and it took me back. Poor thing. She only ever wanted to be wanted.
I came to, an ugly sight, warped with booze sickness and crouched over a pan in my room, apologising for using the wrong name, something to this day which I don’t remember doing.
K- : “I didn’t know they got Saddam Hussein.”
Every netizen witnessed the death throes of Saddam Hussein, even if they never saw the video, a grim harbinger of communication culture. Discourse swept at maybe half the rate of Jackson’s death, a symbolic end to an era that butchered my generation’s faith.
The fractured, distended corpse of Saddam Hussein – reaper usher of the 21st Century – waits for no man.
What is ‘Temptation’? The sound of the space on the dancefloor when someone grasps you by the lungs, locking you in the exhale, and you want to capture how great the lights look reflected in their eyes long before all those unspeakable things start coming to mind. It’s about the surface of that sensation, slick and hot, about never having to accept the empty, vapid, hollow mind that comes with it until the final 7″ is packed away in the early hours of the morning after. It’s about how nothing is everything for eight minutes at a time.
All others forgotten when K- locked eyes on mine to the sounds of ‘Temptation’.
Spite and lethargy are a killer combination: rip the target apart and refuse to deal with the fallout.
The Boy with the Casio watch nails it: “I love that you’re both spiteful and lazy.”
Man, K- never knew what hit her.
The song starts “People think I’m being perverse on purpose” but I wanted to tell The Idea of Kate Jackson to just wait and see.
She confused De Stijl for Still and loved The Cure. It could never have worked.
‘Nothing worse than being a BBC wife’ so the saying goes. It demonstrates a profound lack of foresight and imagination.
Streets borrowed from Shaun of the Dead: No girls at the crossroads, only zombies.