tickets p[lease

Talking Heads — Mind (2005 Remastered Version)

rolling fields rolling away thickets of trees and chunks of shrub fly past I look down at the grey linoleum flecked with yellow spots there is a brown coffee stain pooling underneath the grey metal skeleton of the chair and the stuffing has burst through the red fabric I wonder how much further and risk a glance at my watch another two and a half hours at least I decide it is time and break open my tuna mayonnaise sandwich the bread is soggy and the granary seeds get stuck in my teeth leaving a stodgy paste on my gums I lick them clean and it doesn’t budge I screw my lips up like I’m kissing and it still doesn’t budge so I sip a glug of coca cola and swill it like listerine it tastes pretty gross when I swallow a kid opposite watches the whole thing and I stick my tongue out at him and he smiles through his eyes and I turn my head back to the window the sun picks through the trunks of the trees like a comb through knotty hair it flickers on my face and my pupils are small like pinpricks wide like drainholes small like pinpricks wide like drainholes I start to see spots I turn away and orange clouds fog into my peripheral vision so I scrunch my eyes shut and instead of black everything is light brown with smudges of greens and greys trying to burst through but I rub my eyes until they go and open them and the kid opposite is laughing at me so I wrinkle my nose and make a funny face again his mother is next to him and sees me and I feel my cheeks blush but she smiles at me and tells her kid to leave me alone thank god for that I smile back at her and she looks at me for slightly too long I bet she’s wondering how old I am probably thinks I should be in school well what does she know stupid old hag she can just fuck off what the fuck does she know the stupid fucking

I manage to swallow it down before it takes over. I take my hands off my head and slowly lift my head off of my knees. The woman is still there, she looks worried. My face is red and my eyes are pricked with tears. The train doors make that awful screech and I hurl myself up and get off the train.

 

vegas burgers

ShitKid — Oh Me I’m Never

They stopped to grab some burgers on their way to Vegas. The heatwaves rose off the car’s bonnet like steam, the yellow paint looked like it might melt and drip onto the tarmac. Joe unwrapped his burger, he did not notice the splat of mustard that dripped off the paper wrapping onto his jeans. He took a bite – the bread was firm on the outside and soft in the middle, the beef patties were thin with a grilled skin, the bacon was smooth and salty, the mustard and ketchup was sweet and sticky. He felt a sesame seed lodge in between his two front teeth.

As they walked across the parking lot Joe continued to eat his burger, and the mustard on his thigh was soon joined by a dribble of ketchup. Jean waited to eat hers. The thought of consuming greasy food in this heat made her throat feel even drier, and the warmth of the burger was oozing through its wrapping into her palm, making her skin clammy. She lost her appetite. She ran her free hand through her hair, dragging beads of sweat from her forehead with it, and when she put her arm back down she felt how wet her armpit was. They needed to get the car’s air conditioning fixed.

“Of all the places to stop at, why did we pick this fucking dive? I don’t even want this,” she stared at her burger, “all I wanted was a drink and some AC.”

Joe finished his burger and scrunched up the wrapper, rubbing it on his lips to wipe off the film of sauce and grease. He stuffed the used wrapper in his jeans pocket and took a sip of his coffee. Jean looked at him and exhaled over the back of her throat, making a disparaging noise. Joe carefully considered his words.

“I know. I’m so sweaty my shirt is now part of my skin.” It was true – the thin cotton was so damp it clung to his back. “Look – we’ve only got a few hours until we get there, and EVERYWHERE in Vegas has AC. And showers. And booze. Could you hold this for a second?” He held out the coffee he’d bought. Jean did not hold out a hand in return.

“I can’t believe you got a coffee.”

“Why? It’s what you are supposed to drink when it’s hot. It cools your body temperature down.”

They paused halfway across the parking lot as Jean took the cup. Joe reached into his pocket and took out the wrapper, walked across to a chipped green trashcan and threw it, the wrapper bounced off the rim onto the ground. He sighed, and as he bent down to pick it up, his damp shirt drooped and hugged him close, the wet fabric felt cold and uncomfortable on his back. He swallowed a gasp of discomfort, picked up the wrapper, reached out and placed it inside the mouth of the trash can.

One hundred and thirty two miles to go.

party

Frog — Photograph

I found her outside, alone, leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette. The kitchen door shut behind me and I opened my mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the sound of a young girl vomiting. Her friend – Tanya? Tonya? Tara? – is hunched over on the floor, almost invisible beneath the window sill. The kitchen light illuminates the splatters of sick on the patio, and as Tanya-Tonya-Tara leans forward to hurl again, the light falls on her hair – black with red streaks – and she manages to direct her next spew into the flowerbed.

I ask if her friend is OK. She asks me what I think. We both laugh and she squats down to rub Tanya-Tonya-Tara’s back. A strand of hair falls down over her shoulder and dangles dangerously above a small puke-puddle. She stops rubbing Tanya-Tonya-Tara’s back to tuck it back behind her ears. She asks me if I’d mind getting some water from the kitchen, so I open the door, throwing some light onto the patio; Tanya-Tonya-Tara looks up at me, black eye shadow streaming down her face and purple-red lips coated in a fine film of frothy saliva. Her eyes are out of focus, she doesn’t seem to register my presence, and burps in my direction. I step into the kitchen and search the cupboards for a glass. First try, above the sink, just like mum. I am about to go back outside but pause by the fridge –

Tanya-Tonya-Tara cradles the glass with both hands and takes a sip. She slumps back against the wall and stares into the distance, her eyes closed. Finally we are alone. I offer a can of Fosters and she takes it. I open my own and for a second we say nothing, our silence threatens to drown out the music coming from the living room, she breaks it by asking if I want a cigarette. I clear my throat and nod. She takes them out of her jacket pocket and offers me the pack. I notice there is one hand-rolled cigarette floating against the tightly packed Marlboros and my fingers hesitate slightly. She senses the pause and asks if I want a joint instead. I hear myself saying ‘sure’ and the knot in my stomach tightens even more.

We walk down a small path towards the shed at the bottom of the garden. It’s been raining all week so the grass is damp and muddy, I take care not to scuff my trainers and hop between paving slab islands laid into the lawn, but she doesn’t care; she seems to miss the slabs on purpose. There’s a small bench next to the shed made of curved iron arms and cold, wet wooden slats. She sits down and puts the thin end of the joint between her lips. I sit down next to her, I can feel the wet wood soaking through my jeans. It makes me uncomfortable. She doesn’t seem to mind. The fat end of the cigarette puffs out a whisper of smoke as she lights it; the smoke is fragrant, floral, but also sticky and coarse. I watch intently how she inhales – a drag, a pause, her nostrils flare as she breathes in again – and she watches me watch her. My stomach is now churning with nerves. I wonder if it’s obvious it’s my first time.

cinema date

Young Again – Gents

The air smells of salt or sweet or butter or toffee popcorn. The corn is trapped behind an inch of plastic, when the attendant lifts the lid the scent escapes. He scoops some into a cardboard sleeve and hands it to her. She takes it in one hand and with the other picks a fluffy yellow piece from the top, smiling at me as I hand over five pounds. I smile back.

The sweets in my pocket crunch as we walk over to the attendant. I always get nervous about sneaking snacks in but I figure a fiver for some popcorn entitles me to bend the rules a bit. I hand over my ticket and the guard checks it, rips it and hands it back. He does the same for hers. The whole time he stares at his feet and doesn’t acknowledge us. I recognise his mousey hairdo, freckled cheeks and broad forehead; he is Matt Powell’s younger brother. On Tuesday Matt’s friends had thrown his rucksack onto the tracks as the train arrived, I remember his cheeks bursting scarlet from trying not to cry as he stood there and waited for our train to leave so that he could retrieve it. Everyone watched him through the windows. I respect his wish not to be acknowledged, he ushers us past the velvet rope towards the screens.

The doors are so heavy here. I am a gentleman so I have to open it for her, I fix my foot on the carpet and lean backwards to pull it open, I can’t use both hands, she’d laugh at me. As she walks past I smell her hair and my cheeks begin to flush. I enter behind her, it’s hard to see in the darkness so she reaches out for my hand. Our fingers find each other. I’m sure I can hear her heart beating.

We have an entire aisle to ourselves and our seats are right in the middle so we spread out either side, she takes off her bag first, followed by her scarf, then her jacket, and finally her jumper. I wonder how she will ever move all of her things if someone takes the seat next to us. The wrappers of the sweets in my pocket are louder than ever as I take them out, I move my arms slowly trying to muffle the noise, I’m convinced people in other rows are craning their necks to get a look at me, trying to sniff out the rulebreaker, they’ll hand me in to Matt Powell’s younger brother and he’ll get to throw me, a Year 11, out of the cinema, and in doing so win back some much needed street cred, maybe he’ll even get to ride off into the sunset with Tom Croft’s younger sister, meanwhile I’ll be the one crying on the platform, waiting to get my bag from the tracks.

After a while we are comfortable. We have retained our aisle but the trailers are yet to start and there’s no longer any background sound from the steady stream of arrivals, making it obvious that we are not speaking to each other. I can hear my cheeks go red and my mouth feels like cotton wool, I begin to wish I could withdraw the sweets again, just to drown out the silence. I build some words in my stomach but they can’t get past my throat, I look at her and she is looking at me, waiting for me to tell a joke, tell her she’s beautiful, make her smile and tell her I love her. I want to do all of it, but before I get the chance the adverts start.

hiding in the dark

Sexual Harrassment — I Need A Freak

Your chin hurts and your palm is red, the hairs of your beard have pricked the skin and left tiny dimples. The window is so close that you can see the reflection of your pupils. Outside, children are playing in the street, hiding behind cars and chasing each other through the cracks in the bumpers, dusky light helping camouflage them. There is a small boy that the others are ignoring who is desperately pursuing them, but his age and size prevent him keeping up, and as they disappear behind the net curtain only the boy is left. He loses sight of them and kicks a tyre of a burnt orange Cadillac.

Your eye stares back. It’s dark now and there are no street lamps on this road. Your reflection has a solid outline and it’s like looking in a mirror. Turn off the lamp, both sides in darkness.

Gradually lights in the houses opposite flick off to on to off again. It’s almost eleven PM and most of the neighbourhood are in their beds now, but you are still stuck at the window sill. Your elbow is numb from resting on the hard wood and your teeth feel tight from the pressure on your jaw. Your lips are dry and your throat is blocked, a roof-of-the-mouth-cough clears it. There is nobody on the street, when your neighbour opens their porch to light a cigarette you hear the click of the lock and the tchk of the lighter and the dry puff of their smoke.

At twenty past eleven you hear her car turn at the end of the road, and seconds later you see the beams of her headlights as she turns into your street. She drives slowly, respectful of the peace she is disturbing, and you duck behind the wall before she turns into the driveway. The room you are standing in is briefly illuminated. A chair, a fireplace, a tall bookshelf and a short table –

She is quick to turn off the headlights. Her neighbours are asleep. You wait in the darkness and your eyes gradually readjust. The bulky shadow of a sofa is within arm’s reach, it is large enough to hide you when she opens the door. You crouch down behind it. If she turns on the headlights she is sure to see you there but she doesn’t and you begin to feel yourself merge into the darkness. She is still in the drivers’ seat, her head against the steering wheel, not moving. After a minute passes the interior light of the car blinks off and you can no longer see her, but you sense she has not moved.

More minutes pass. You cannot explain how you know but you know that she has not moved. The dark living room becomes to shrink in size, the tension in the air begins to tickle the hairs on your arms, the thud thud thud in your chest becomes louder until your lungs begin to feel smaller and all the while you just know that she isn’t moving from her spot. Your mouth is dry, you lick your lips and swallow and the sound cuts through the darkness. You are an unwanted stranger in this house, this street, this night.

Beach

Hatchie — Try

Every time Alex breathed in he could taste her. Her perfume had filled the room like a cloud, it was heady and potent and thick and clogged his throat and nostrils making it hard to inhale. She had stayed just five minutes but the scent was inescapable, he felt it prick his eyes and they began to water, roses and lilies and vanilla and citrus and freshly cut grass and cream and pollen and silk and white and blue and green flitted through his imagination.

He closed his eyes and a single tear blinked from his eyelashes and rolled down his cheek. He captured it on his fingertips and brought it to his lips. It tasted like the sea. He remembered when he was a child and his dad had walked him along the beach on an overcast dreary day. The wind had whipped dry sand grains against his face and the sky was threatening a storm but it had not rained. His coat was too large (you’ll grow into it, his mum had said) and the toggles fluttered behind him in the breeze. Even with his hood up the cold was everywhere and his nostrils leaked snot that felt like it would freeze in the open air and he wondered why his dad had brought him here when he could have been at home playing on his Sony PlayStation. Soon they reached the damp sand, wet from the morning’s tide, and it clung to Alex’ wellington boots like clay. They still did not stop. After a while they reached a small river of sea water trying to make its way inland that cut through the sand like a ravine. The banks were smooth and the water was clear. Alex wanted to touch the riverbed sand and feel it flow through his fingers in that liquid-solid-gas consistency of thin wet sand, but his dad stepped over the river and carried on towards the sea. As they got closer the wind lifted drops of water from the spray and coated Alex’ upper lip with a moustache of seafoam. He licked his lips and tasted the salt.

His tear had the same taste and he now desperately clung to that memory, that wintery beach walk, determined not to lose himself in the fog of Jean and the pale skinned woman and Sylvester and the governor and the man he had seen in the mirror and the perfume.

The Star Ferry

Weyes Bloody — Diary

Alex opted for the upper deck. He figured the sea breeze would do him some good and he wanted to take in the sights of Kowloon and Lantau; he had never been to Hong Kong and, in spite of himself, he found a growing excitement in his stomach at the prospect of partaking in a stalwart tourist tradition – The Star Ferry.

Sylvester had calculated Alex’ flight risk as minimal and opted for the lower deck. When their paths forked at the point of boarding, Sylvester sensed Alex’ pulse racing as the option of escape entered his mind, and so gently lifted the grey cotton flank of his blazer, exposing his pistol. It gleamed in the Hong Kong haze. Sylvester motioned for him to continue, walking two steps behind him over his right shoulder.

The boat was annexed onto the pier with a thick wooden board, with chunky rungs protruding to help passengers find their footing in wet weather. As the waves gently rocked the boat the board bobbed haphazardly from side to side, and when Alex stepped on it his legs felt like jelly; did he get seasick? When was the last time he’d been on a boat? That school trip when he was fourteen? Would he throw up over the side? His panic was interrupted as a large wave caused the board to rise underfoot and he almost lost his footing, his torso toppling backwards and arms flailing –

A firm hand caught his shoulder and pushed him upright. He stepped onto the boat and grasped the chain-link railing, flakes of green copper paint splintering into his palm, and turned to thank the owner of the hand. A stern Chinese man in a cream uniform looked at him and raised his eyebrows in the direction of the stairs to the upper deck. Alex smiled and stuttered a thank you before making his way up the wooden staircase.

The upper deck was less grand than he had hoped. Thin wooden benches lined the centre of the vessel and there were some plastic seats fixed onto a metal frame at the rear of the deck. These were already occupied by two conductors – or ship mates – who were wearing the same cream uniform as the attendant that helped Alex on board. They were smoking cigarettes and engrossed in deep conversation. Alex crossed over to the bench in front of the two men and took a seat on the outside so that he could absorb the view. When he sat down he spotted a wooden safety rail affixed to the bench in front with a brass hinge, similar to that you’d find when boarding a rollercoaster. He briefly wondered how fast this boat could manage – surely this was an unnecessary precaution – however still folded the bar across his lap. Just in case.

An Open Letter to James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem

Dear James,

It has been a while, old friend. I won’t pretend to ask how you are as I know all too well – and I am glad. You deserved it, you really did.

As I sit here writing I realise that I don’t know whether I am writing to thank you or to blame you. My hope is that, as the words come out of my fingers, my thoughts will take form and, by the time this letter has come to an end, we will both know one way or the other.

I was 15 when we first met. My parents had just bought a desktop computer, thereby marking the end of our working class roots, and I was beginning to lose interest in school. I was hopelessly in love with a girl from Park Side Comprehensive and we were going on a date at the weekend to watch Meet The Fockers. I decided that I needed to impress her and so I sat down at the large cream box and connected to the internet.

[Reader, just to clarify, this letter is not about to take a sinister turn; feel free to read on and loosen the knot in your stomach.]

At 15 my musical tastes were exclusively informed by the NME. They had recently reviewed your first full length album and awarded it a meaty 8 out of 10, well above my listening bar. Please forgive me for this next revelation (it is not one I am proud of), but once I was finally connected to the internet the first thing I did was find a torrent of your album and illegally download it. You have to understand that I was a broke 15 year-old kid who had access to a seemingly unlimited library of free music. We will discuss this later, but, for now, you should know that I would download anything that was rated above 6/10 by the NME, leave it to gather digital dust in my expansive iTunes library, and instead play a select few albums on constant repeat. Yours was not one of them.

No, I think it is safe to say that at 15 I was too early for LCD Soundsystem. Daft Punk is Playing at my House was the only song I saw any redeeming qualities in; the others were too long, devoid of guitar hooks with obtuse and inaccessible lyrics. Nonetheless you had been awarded a staggering 8 (stars?) and so I decided I would force a few listens. Sadly, my adolescent self hadn’t yet grasped the concept of a ‘grower’. My teenage id instead demanded instant gratification along the lines of The Fratellis, The Vines, and (worse) – Jet. I gave up halfway through the first spin.

Some years went past with my ill-gotten download of LCD Soundsystem slowly aging alongside stolen copies of Antics, Kid A and Agaetis Byrjun. I occasionally spotted your debut when scrolling from Bloc Party to Late of The Pier, but never gave it a listen. In fact, by the time 2007 rolled around, I had even turned my back on Daft Punk is Playing at my House; you were an antique, in the same category as the Kaiser Chiefs or Embrace. Another boring guitar band. And then you released Sound of Silver.

Some months ahead of its release I had upgraded my musical bar from the NME to Pitchfork (the >6/10 benchmark remained the same). Your sophomore won a staggering 9.2 (thumbs up?) out of 10! I couldn’t believe it – dad-rock band LCD Soundsystem? 9.2/10? Surely that was a mistake – I don’t think I had seen a score above 9.0 since I had started reading Pitchfork. I was excited. I opened the review. “As close to a perfect hybrid of dance and rock music’s values as you’re likely to ever hear” read the opening paragraph.

[Reader do not mistake me for an obsessive at this part of the story – the review is open in a tab next to this word document.]

James, I must apologise once again. Although I now had a job, and did occasionally spend my minimum wage on CDs, I was skeptical after my failure to appreciate your first album, and so I once again found a torrent to illegally download Sound of Silver. After a download time of roughly 45 minutes – which may sound long but bear in mind it was 2007, and I’d waited almost three hours for LCD Soundsystem in 2005 – I ripped it to a CD and took it to my room. You’re probably expecting this to be the tipping point in the letter, right? No. I didn’t like it. I think I made it through an entire listen and again only found one track with any redemptive qualities (you don’t need me to tell you what it was).

I could probably have ended my jaunt down memory lane after slating your first album, but I know that you yourself have been a critic of that record. Not that you are right to criticise LCD Soundsystem – far from it – but I felt it important to tell you that the seminal Sound of Silver also washed over me like tepid water. Several years passed and I carried on listening to it piecemeal; gradually Get Innocuous wormed its way onto my driving playlist, Someone Great sound-tracked a messy breakup, and talking about the happy-sad ratio of All My Friends was my mascot of indie-credibility; however, it was still a fair few years until we really got to know each other.

Everyone downloaded music in the 00s. Honestly. Paying for digital music just wasn’t a ‘thing’; CD purchases were acceptable but kids that paid for iTunes downloads had more money than sense. The tipping point came with In Rainbows when Radiohead validated the millions of hours of digital theft stored on hard drives around the world, by releasing an album for free. I am sure this is a debate we would enjoy over a beer some time, but it is not the point of my letter. It is, however, crucial to our next encounter.

[That’s 1000 words there, feel free to stop at any point dear reader.]

Black Friday 2015. I was living with a flat-mate and found myself a weird mix of jealous and scornful of his record collection: Bach, The Rolling Stones and Joe Bonamassa. I did not want to own these records. I wanted to improve them. And so, I bought a discounted turntable as an early Christmas present. Obviously a turntable is essential to a record collection, but it’s also useless without any records. I was employed now, earning more money than my parents’ joint income at its heights, and I felt it was time I repaid the community I had been stealing from for a decade. However, as a complete novice I had no idea where to look, and so clumsily typed ‘vinyl’ into Amazon. Guess what was suggested?

When I met my girlfriend I began to believe in serendipity. We met in our fourth year at university, the year after all of our three-year degree friends had graduated. The prospect of returning to a sleepy town with no friends and an uphill struggle to improve my grades was not particularly inviting, and I left it late to enroll. This resulted in a slim choice of accommodation and I was forced to take the most expensive hall on campus, with a rent bill equal to >90% of my entire student loan + grant. That year was a 2-meal-a-day struggle, but I met the love of my life, so clearly it was meant to be.

I have no idea why Amazon (where I was working at the time, I should add) suggested I buy This is Happening. It had been years since I had thought about you, but as soon as I saw you there in that black suit I got this weird premonition of anticipation. I added the vinyl to my shopping cart and checked out. Amazon has this great feature where a digital version of a physical music purchase is added automatically to your digital music library, however I resolved myself not to listen just yet. Instead I read the review of your final album on Pitchfork – another 9.2 – in which they featured a quote from an interview you gave to The Guardian: “I spent my whole life wanting to be cool… but I’ve come to realize that coolness doesn’t exist the way I once assumed.”

As soon as I read that I knew that we would have a very long relationship. I had also spent my entire life wanting to be cool; dressing in a certain way, liking certain things (or, rather, disliking other things), downloading music to impress girls on dates… you had summarized my entire young adult life and demolished it. What did it mean to be cool? James Murphy was what it meant to be cool.

I hope this letter does not come across as false-flattery. I can’t think of a way to express my feelings towards you other than through admiration and respect, and I’m sure being referred to as ‘cool’ will make you squirm in discomfort. I’ve seen you in interviews, I’ve seen your attempts to deflect any question about your role as a cultural icon, and it adds to the many reasons I admire you. Please believe me when I say that, for me, you are the epitome of cool.

Anyway I digress and we still have some ground to cover. The record arrived and I listened to your music the way you intended it to be listened to; analogue, retro and loud. Obviously I loved it. In the years between my flirtation with Sound of Silver and that first spin of This Is Happening I had taken my musical blinkers off; Antics, Kid A and Agaetis Byrjun were now among my favourite albums, and I had fully grasped the concept of a grower. [Ignore the phallic images that conjures, please.]

I spent months discovering your music. Something inside me had changed and suddenly it all made sense. I really, really lost myself in your work for a while and became a borderline obsessive. Don’t worry, I’m not about to send you a lock of my hair or a toenail or anything, I just want to paint a picture of a 26 year-old guy, who had grown up with some of the greatest music ever made around him, and he’d ignored it in favour of Franz Ferdinand’s third album. Seriously. What a fucking idiot.

By the way, at this point in writing I seem to be leaning towards thanking you. I feel like that’s where I’ll end up but, again, we are still not quite done, are we?

The fact I had become an LCD anorak is important. I’d gone through your entire library, including the running album 45:33 (small side note: thank you for the 5 kilos I lost, by the way), and I was wondering what to go to next.

“I was really a failure. Like really really really…really…really really really a failure.”

That’s the opening line of an interview you gave with SVT Play, available on YouTube. The clip is called Interview with James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem about how to deal with Failure. If you haven’t seen it, I cannot recommend it strongly enough, even if it is a bit weird to watch yourself talk about…yourself. Honestly, man, this interview changed my life.

Suddenly it felt OK to be living with a flatmate when my girlfriend had moved out of our home and back in with her parents. It felt OK to be trapped in a job on a career path I hated. It felt OK that I hadn’t written a best seller and that I wasn’t even fucking trying. The fear of failure at all of those things had paralysed me for years, and when you articulated those exact same feelings, the knot around my heart loosened. It was OK that I hadn’t tried yet. It was definitely OK that I hadn’t succeeded yet. When you have thoughts and feelings that aren’t shared by anyone around you, but one of your personal heroes admits to them – well, it’s remarkable. It’s like having a bucket of cold water thrown in your face. I suddenly felt less alone.

[Dear reader, if you’re still with me – obviously I was not alone at this point in my life. Like I said earlier, I had found the love of my life. It’s a complicated feeling and it’s why I’m writing this letter. But dearest beloved, please don’t be offended.]

It’s cold and dark outside now. I’m listening to the fade out on Black Screen from your #1 billboard album American Dream. Congratulations again on that, by the way; when I said you deserved it I really, sincerely meant it. I won’t keep you for any longer and I was right about writing this, I feel a new sense of closure. Not that our relationship is over, James, far from it. No, I feel closure about the second to last paragraph. I don’t think I’ve ever articulated that before and it feels like I’ve worked out a splinter, a thick knot of something inside me, something dark and brooding that has now faded away.

Before you get too big-headed, unfortunately I should tell you that you are not the hero of this story. Music is a one-way dialogue from artist to listener; you talk to me but I can’t talk back, and this letter is the same thing. You have an opinion but frankly I’m not interested in it, in the same way you continued to make music when I was 15 and thought you were shit. I am not deluded into thinking you are a tangible part of my life, you don’t have any idea who I am. You should, however, know that it’s because of you that I took accountability for my life.

That discovery took place over a year ago. I would update you on the status of the things I was scared at failing at, but I won’t. It doesn’t matter, because it’s OK to try and it’s OK to not and it’s OK to succeed and it’s OK to not. There is only one thing that I should update you on.

I felt alone, I no longer feel alone.

Thank You.

[Reader, as a thank you for sticking with me, please enjoy the video I talked about earlier, it’s worth a watch. It might just change your life.]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yYCz06bS380

The Idiot

Iggy Pop — Nightclubbing

There’s a story on the news aboutta guy who ate a dover sole whole, got it stuck down his throat til he couldn’t breathe no more, his friends called an ambulance when his face went blue; meanwhile I’m a fuckin’ idiot cos I don’t know the first thing about Tianaman square? Bullshit. Don’t even know how it’s spelt but I sure as shit can use a semi colon.

There’s a guy on the tube wearing a tweed blazer tryin’ to ignore the bead of sweat making its way from his neck to his back, he could take off the blazer an’ that bead of sweat would be no more, and yet I’m the fuckin’ idiot cos I didn’t know you’re s’posed to serve a latte with warm milk instead of boiling it first.

There’s a tune in my ear from Annie Clark about a monster hankerin’ for a sacred cow but everyone knows Hindus don’t eat cows, it’s the catholics that eat baby Jesus, and yet I’m the fuckin’ moron ‘cos it took me months to notice Kurt Vile & Courtney Barnett aren’t the most famous Kurt & Courtney out there.

My yellow coat has a brown line along the neck ‘cos I wore it to a festival and never washed my neck, and when I got back I never washed the coat neither. I’ll admit that one’s pretty fuckin’ stupid.

I’m mindin’ my own business on my way to work, keeping my elbows sharp in case some prick next to me thinks the arm rest is single occupancy, realising it’s much faster to drop a few letters here an’ there when you’re talkin’ quickly but it’s a bitch to write, and then I look up from my phone and realise everybody on the tube is paused. It’s mega-weird, they’re not moving an inch.

I pause K&C halfway thru their continental breakfast and it’s like the tube-sounds have paused too. I take my headphones out and nothin’. It sounds like how I’d imagine space would sound, there sure as shit ain’t nobody screamin’, my ears have got that weird feelin’ where you need to chew somethin’ to get ‘em to pop.

The tube ain’t movin’ which is nuts ‘cos I never got that slanty slowdown you get when the tube driver hits the brakes. What were we smokin’ last night, man? That’s a line by the way, I gotta job in the city, I ain’t smokin’ nothin’ but Marlboros. There’s an old dude opposite me halfway through a page turn of his paper, if he’s havin’ me on he’s doin’ a bang up job; the other folks I can see are all starin’ into the distance or leanin’ against the pole, to be honest you wouldn’t notice anythin’ out the ordinary if it weren’t for Fred. That’s the old geezer’s name in case you weren’t payin’ attention.

I think about standin’ up but I hate standin’ up on tubes in case they jolt forwards and I fall onto an old, pregnant, blind, and black woman, so instead I sit still but get a good lean on. There’s a skinny bloke in front of me wearin’ skinny grey jeans round his skinny drainpipe legs with a skinny tie on a skinny shirt drinking what I expect is a full-fat latte and I lean forwards toward him to get a look down the tube; a real good lean, lean in so good that my hairspray quiff crunches against him and gets messed outta place. Normally I’d be fuckin’ pissed but judging from the freaky sci-fi time pause shit goin’ on I got bigger fish to fry.

 

 

broom closet

Big Black — The Model

I want your money / That’s / What I want

The lobby was grand. Black columns decorated with gold leaf trim grew out of a white marble floor, my suitcase wheels made almost no noise, gliding along behind me as I approached the desk.

A short Asian woman greeted me. One of those rich places where the staff don’t smile. It’s more honest that way I guess.

“Good morning sir. Here to check in?”

“Yes, I have a reservation under Greene.”

“Just a moment please sir.”

She tapped some keys on her keyboard, the small black machine next to her whirred into life and a white keycard slid out.

“Have you stayed with us before sir?”

This suit I had on must be working. If she had seen me in my clothes from yesterday she wouldn’t have needed to ask that question.

“No, I have not.” I flashed a shark smile.

“Very well, you are in room 427. It is on the fourth floor, the elevator is just to your right,” she motioned to the black elevator doors behind one of the columns. “This is your keycard,” she tapped the white plastic card, her eyes were hazel and soft. “You will need to swipe it to use the elevator and then again to access your room. Please do not lose it as there is a fifteen dollar charge for replacements, which will be added to your bill at the end of your stay. Breakfast will be served in the restaurant” – another point, this time to the glass doors to the right of the reception desk – “between six and nine thirty tomorrow morning. The bar closes at eleven pm, however the front desk will be staffed all night should you require anything else.” She did not smile at me. She was being rude. It was sexy.

“Thank you” – a glance at her chest, small pert breasts framed in an oversized bra cup, red text on a white plastic gold framed name badge – “Elaine.” My eyes stayed on her chest and I felt my leer being returned with a blush. Women – so fucking predictable.