Archive for September, 2009
Marky Mark and I holed up in Bristol at winter, night rolling in, curry on our laps, totally devoted to the celluloid masterpiece as soon as Samuel Curtis starts walking on Ceres. EVERY DAY IN EVERY WAY IIIIIIIIIITTTTT’SS! THE AMERICAN ASTRONAUT!
“There are points when it all almost works, when you wish everything would just click into place and move.” B.S. Johnson looks whistful at Veselka’s, eating a breakfast waffle.
You can’t see it, but these pages are stained with use now.
She took me to the Sunday Upmarket to escape the week and it helped for a time, but I preferred it on my own. Why? Just go.
No good comes of writing about music.
I’m not saying life in the Tea Building was a mistake, but it was well on the way.
Old Street: Intimately shabby station in an area locked in entropic stasis. Around it the slow wheel of progress is halted in motion by the process of perpetual decay.
Ambitions extended no further than a friend’s couch and quiet drinks. And being remembered.
I’m in a strange land of fanboys and mayhem when I’m rescued by the poet.
You might say it all worked out fine in Bristol.
Coach to meet the former flatmate.
Stumble upon a break-up.
Lacking vitriol, I needed Haines to become a hero. With bile and fire his lyrics lurch towards inspirational diatribes against the weather-beaten shitness of being English.
This is all about beginnings.
Luke Haines, forever delayed, a beacon amid gestures of kindness.
While smiling in the language of “I hate you” The Auteur arrives late to the party.
Outlines fingertip-traced on shoulders.
Pop Music as prayer. ‘He’, ‘She’, ‘You’… abstractions that bask in the transcendent, sound as a grand, rolling call to the divine in all things and a dedication to the spiritual. Britney’s slave – for You – an angel, not a sinner.
It’s an aria. Leaking up the stairs, down too, it’s an aria accompanied by the splash of shower water.
I am thinking too much about my answers. I should think less.
Ah, Stuart, wonderful Stuart, just kept getting it right. A little on the side of the divine, blessed with the Devil’s attention to melody, full of poems and harmony. Stumbling upon Belle & Sebastian a little late she loved those mornings with Tigermilk lazily spinning at thirty three and a third.
Back seat of the W7, late, work-tired, trundling into Crouch End, her head resting on my shoulder.
I have in my head a snapshot of Paul Morley, sipping coffee at Veselka’s over breakfast, humming ‘Make Out, Fall out, Make Up’.
The Idea of Kate Jackson gave up waiting at the crossroads. She’d be back later, only the faintest of knowing smiles on her lips.
Zombie. I called the cat Zombie.
At 20 I didn’t quite know what I wanted, so The Lady never knew the Sloaney blip of a night and a morning. I never had to explain that and I won’t start now.
24 hours sweating and vomiting and hallucinating the visage of an illustrated Damon Albarn for the sake of, unknown to me then, love.
The sickest I’ve been involved gastric flu and what I assumed at the time was a one night stand.
“You’re the B-side!”
A suspended chord acts in tension, the listener demanding resolution. In Wagner’s Ring Cycle that hanging chord draws to a close with the end of a world and in ‘All My Friends’ it comes when James declares his need for the love of those closest to him as hard as he can. In both there’s a moral grasp towards completion and closure.