Archive for September, 2009

two hundred forty two


dananun Dun,
danunan dun,
dunanun Dan,
dananan tlashclitch


two hundred forty one


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!

two hundred forty


“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.

two hundred thirty nine


You can’t see it, but these pages are stained with use now.

two hundred thirty eight


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.

two hundred thirty seven


No good comes of writing about music.

two hundred thirty six


I’m not saying life in the Tea Building was a mistake, but it was well on the way.

two hundred thirty five


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.

two hundred thirty four


Ambitions extended no further than a friend’s couch and quiet drinks. And being remembered.

two hundred thirty three


I’m in a strange land of fanboys and mayhem when I’m rescued by the poet.

two hundred thirty two


You might say it all worked out fine in Bristol.

two hundred thirty one


Coach to meet the former flatmate.
Stumble upon a break-up.
Bristol Sucks.

two hundred thirty


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.

two hundred twenty nine


This is all about beginnings.

two hundred twenty eight


Luke Haines, forever delayed, a beacon amid gestures of kindness.

two hundred twenty seven


While smiling in the language of “I hate you” The Auteur arrives late to the party.

two hundred twenty six


Outlines fingertip-traced on shoulders.

two hundred twenty five


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.

two hundred twenty four


It’s an aria. Leaking up the stairs, down too, it’s an aria accompanied by the splash of shower water.

two hundred twenty three


I am thinking too much about my answers. I should think less.

two hundred twenty two


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.

two hundred twenty one


Back seat of the W7, late, work-tired, trundling into Crouch End, her head resting on my shoulder.

two hundred twenty


I have in my head a snapshot of Paul Morley, sipping coffee at Veselka’s over breakfast, humming ‘Make Out, Fall out, Make Up’.

two hundred nineteen


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.

two hundred eighteen


Zombie. I called the cat Zombie.

two hundred seventeen


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.

two hundred sixteen


24 hours sweating and vomiting and hallucinating the visage of an illustrated Damon Albarn for the sake of, unknown to me then, love.

two hundred fifteen


The sickest I’ve been involved gastric flu and what I assumed at the time was a one night stand.

two hundred fourteen


“You’re the B-side!”

two hundred thirteen


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.