I need to clear my head.
The only shops open in Haywards Heath after 7pm are deserted restaurants and half-full hair salons.
Last night, I travelled down unlit roads and pitch-dark byways until I reached a Village Pub full of LIGHTS and FRIENDSHIP (even a smouldering fire) where I talked punk rock and Brighton, Sophie Dahl and forgiveness with a couple of ladies that you may or may not have heard of. Conversation was a babble of laughter and reminisces. Conversation was key. Communication is always key.
R.I.P. NME. By the end, it wasn’t so much dancing about architecture as wanking about branding.
BREAK: Until this song randomly started playing in my iTunes folder a few minutes ago, I never realised this was where Brighton’s Kings of Romo got their name from.
I need to clear my head.
Last night, we talked music. Our talk of music was full and effusive and enthusiastic but towards the end this one song was discussed and picked over and praised and disseminated and so forth.
The architecture in West Side Story is so goddamn beautiful.
The visual for this blog entry comes from another strand of conversation we followed merrily for a few minutes: drawn from a random friend’s Facebook feed, it represents one direction my life could have taken. Each time you make a decision it closes down a myriad possibilities.
This song. At some point, I MUST have rhapsodised – not eloquently, just passionately – over Persia’s voice and Saffron must have told me a handful of great loving stories about Gary himself. Essex boy. I recall walking into Parrot Records on Chelmsford High Street in 1978 and they telling me I should pick up a copy of ‘Down In The Park’ on 12-inch because he was a local and… well, duh. It’s GREAT!
Which it is.
This song, though… this is what I am trying to tell you. This is what it all comes back down to. The passion, the intensity, the mysticism, those MASSIVE beating drums. The interplay between father and daughter. The tension (real or imagined, it hardly matters). The way the sound seems to swell and swell until it swallows up the whole horrible rotting outside world. The emotion.
Examine the previous sentence: it is not a sentence, also it signifies nothing.
Also I am looking out the window at the swirling snowstorm falling sullen and beautiful upon middle England as I two-finger type these words, not at the keyboard; also it signifies nothing. What emotion, precisely? To which I answer: why always this need to be precise? Who does it serve? What does it serve?
My name is ruin.