New York. Country BlueGrass Blues. David Byrne. Richard Hell. Crazy Rhythms, man.
New York in the heat is one of the worst places I’ve ever been. Sweat sticking my thighs together, sweat sticking my shirt to my back, sweat sticking my arse to the subway seat. It’s 34 degrees and it’s not even that fucking sunny. The lads are here too, leaning from the handrails, we are dead on our feet. It’s like a tar pit, we are sinking into the ground, the subway tunnels are swallowing us whole and they’ll spit us back up into the dry desert of Williamsburg. We were going to get some coke for later but I’m glad we didn’t, my pockets are like a rainforest, it’d turn to paste. Could still rub it on my gums I guess.
Have you ever had a cigarette in this climate? All your throat wants is something cool and refreshing, instead it gets dry cancer dust. It’s like eating cotton wool. I know this because I’ve done it so many times already on this trip but as soon as we’re back out in the open it’s the first thing I do. My fingers can barely get one out they’re so sweaty.
Across the river is the city, looming large (except for those 2 buildings that should be there but aren’t). Traders. Fat Cats. Money. Here there’s a flea market where a jacket costs 270 bucks and a sandwich is 12.50. Pitchfork. James Murphy. Skinny Black Jeans in 34 degree heat. If Brooklyn is the home of the outcasts who are the outcasts in Brooklyn? British guys in shirts. Before long we’re in a dive bar (again) and drinking (no shit) Brooklyn lager. Maybe I’ll get a Brooklyn tattoo. Maybe I’ll get a face tattoo. Maybe I’ll move to Chicago and open a tattoo parlour and meet a woman who agrees with me that the saddest thing they’ve ever seen is Karen O crying as she desperately scans the audience searching for her boyfriend all the while crooning ‘wait/they don’t love you like i love you’.