To begin with, without my glasses I resemble a mole rat. Scurrying away in the deep, richness of the soil, life is a blurry mess, figures, entities that normally exist in high definition become outlines, faceless, featureless, their flaws and points of attraction, I am nescient to. Unconscious of the finer things in life, dealing strictly in vagueness. So, when I take my glasses off and just stand there, eyes closed, I hope it will be an interesting experiment and test of self.

The first thing I realise is how uncomfortable I now am because of this induction into darkness. My hands are twitching, panicked movements at my sides, not quite knowing what has gone on, we’ve lost our protection they must be debating, all my internal components hollering, them trying to rectify and hold steady the cantankerous ship falling about them, desperately restraining the intended winding down of James’ life, the self-determined desire to place him out to pasture early, tying himself to a wooden post in treacherous conditions, inviting willingly the wolves to have a gander at this man prone to carelessness and at risk of serious damage.

I feel like I should give walking a chance. My socked foot probes the new surroundings, not certain or willing to commit anything, so it cowers back, tail wagging limply between its toe-jammy crevices, back to safety. I move my foot in a circular fashion, I can feel in detail the frictionless, non-personality of the marble tile. It’s cold and distant which seems so foreign for a house I know to be filled with love and warmth. I’m enjoying the sensation. I like scrunching my toes and running it through the dipped ridge that encase the tile in its squared styling. I take a step forward. Hesitant. Even though I am in a room I have known all my life, seen, inspected every millimetre of space, stepped in every possible combination to the front door. One little mouse step, one miniscule step, I feel scared and unsure of myself. I stop because I am terrified, and I want to regain control, centring in on balance, stability, breathing at rest, processing all the sensory information, with my parietal lobe stimulated to fuck and on over-drive. I dig the nails of my fingers into the skin of their friends, the sharp jolt is calming. I circle my leg, awoken to the pain in my left knee, not underneath the patella, but just aside, tinkling away at the tendons, plucking them like bass strings. The music in the background, I’m more aware of the little sounds, instruments concealed, overlooked by their brash, thrashing siblings in the orchestra who crave centre-stage, need it. It’s cold in the house. My chest shudders and I can feel its journey, the internal quake rousing from the pit in my chest and running down my arm to the fingers. The light is coming in from the windows. I can feel it invade the sanctum of my eye lid, although I cannot see anything, I feel the light, friend or foe, I’m not sure.

I’m done with this now.

 

Two for you.

Travis Scott- Astrothunder

Link to music video.

This is off his latest record ‘Astroworld’. At first, running my four eyes down the tracklist, its substantial size was somewhat off putting and I wondered why should I even bother with such a consuming task. And my head, deep with consternation is asking why? Why does the artist try and force feed us with all this? I feel like the goose getting deep throated for my lovely liver. Coarse or fine, your choice. I guess how else will you make that STREAMING MONEY IF YOU DON’T JUST THROW ALL THE PAINT ON THE CANVAS, AND HOPE TO GOD SOMETHING STICKS. By jove, you’ve made art, good sir! Luckily, there are many diamonds within, that although reticent at first, through repeated listens it grants the consumer an enlightening experience.  The first thing I loved about this album was the latitude and scope to each song’s palate. The, multiple temporal shifts of beat patterns and time signatures, vivace, allargando, con moto,sostenuto. And then hitting me was how each song had this fissiparous nature, the instrumental weaves us one way and then steers us violently to new spheres, or new worlds, completely off stratosphere in some instances And not forgetting the numerous A-list guests going toe-for-toe, pound-for-pound to reign supreme, heralded as the feature kingpin. All must bow. But in any case, enough of this dawdling, my particular favourite, the shiniest jewel in the toy box, could be a bit of a surprise. For an artist renowned for his showmanship, a man who shares the gauntlet, distributing the artistic flame to others to take his creations to places that he cannot take them vocally, this song is an anomaly. It is a solo piece. It’s all about Travis. And I really like that. It seems disrobed, introspective,the glitz and glamour in absentia. It feels like someone sitting alone, watching the stars, unimaginable celestial beings regaling the sky above, their luminosity dwindling and coming forth, brighter than ever.

Jonny Greenwood- Tree Synthesisers

Link to music video.

If I was a lotus eater, this would be on repeat. The music flitting amidst the Hellenistic, sexualised scupltures alongside art detailing the enchantment of the world that line the white, marbled corridors, centering into my chambers of tatami mattresses, encased by the deep,velvet curtains camouflaging my delicate demeanour from the outside, books scattered, all on page 132 as I fanatically search for the meaning of all life. I have relinquished continence and I am safe in my narcotic dreamy depths, just waiting, eyes wide open for the moment the song brings me to the verge of ascension, on the cusp of unshackling my human restraints in search of something better.

It’s from the film ‘You Were Never Really Here’. Which I couldn’t recommend enough.

I ran a half marathon with K on Sunday the 21st. It’s something that I am fairly proud of completing. These are some of my thoughts and things that I saw and experienced during it. Basically just going to do my best Murakami impression and rip of his style of describing the sensations he feels when he runs.

• It was very grey as we waited to start. I was uneasy, not quite knowing what to expect. Stretching extravagantly in preparation, possibly too much, rearranging my shirt due to the volume of Vaseline I had smothered on my nipples to prevent chafing and was making my skin now feel squeamish and disgusting. I think this is what the professionals do.
• Lots of serious faces in their running gear. inscrutable faces, masks of impassivity, I felt very judged. But you can see it in the eyes, the hunger, like greyhounds, just need to see the tongue lolling, hankering . Competitive spunk flowing, eyes judging those surrounding them, can I beat them, will they be a threat to my time, they can’t beat me, nothing can.
• It started. And I don’t quite know what I am doing.
• We are going through residential areas.
• You have to be aware of yourself. The track or road is constantly switching in width, sometimes expanding and granting you space to run in reasonable comfort and other time funnelling you via fences down a section of the track,  bony shoulders, sharp elbows and flailing, chicken yet surprisingly muscular legs in close proximity to one another.
• K is being remarkably patient with me, saint-like in her support. Always slightly ahead and glancing backwards to check up on me, guiding and advising me, dictating pace and keeping everything level, on an even keel.
• The first 10 kilometres, I was working out my pace, stride, watching everyone around me and seeing what I can incorporate into my actions, trying to keep to a harmonious, undulating rhythm of upper and lower torso in concert with one another.
• There’s a guy in a Manchester United shirt in front of me. His pace looks good, need to keep him in my scope. AND FUCKING BEAT HIM NO MATTER WHAT, EVEN IF THAT MEANS TRIPPING HIM UP ON THE FINAL STRAIGHT.
• We ran through the back-end of Amsterdam. Under bridges, through arse end parks, industrial estates, a G Star Raw factory in all its brutalist beauty, fully self-aware of the statement it is making.
• 11 to 14 kilometres was difficult. My knee ached, the right one, I adapted my movement consequentially. Normally my right drives me, so I am now leading off on my left, direct, straight to the ground, bend and flex, one muscle contracting and another relaxing. Whilst my right leg is doing an almost step-over action, switching it up to distract the pain I am contending with in my head, and trying to confound and befuddle myself into soldiering on with no distraction, calcifying my resolve. For the cause.
• I am enjoying the free bananas at the waypoints. Not content with consuming it as a normal person, I am taking an inconsiderable amount of pleasure by mushing it into a disturbing, gunky ball and trying to swallow said atrocity whilst in perpetual motion. If I choke, I only have myself to blame for being a fuck wit.
• The introduction of chewing gum, the incessant chewing till all flavour has placated. It brought about a second wind, turning the pain I was experiencing into a docile puppy in my brain, not even worth a second thought. I had a race to finish, that was all I cared about.
• We enter the city again, Vondelpark from 18 to the finish. This really hurt.
• People cheering throughout, hearing your name being read out by those kind souls, music blaring from strategic outposts along the route as well as from open apartment bay windows. Always emerging at moments when the toxic lull was threatening to overwhelm me, the multifariousness of the textures and sounds of the settings I found myself in really helped to raise my spirits. Nice to hear people wishing you on, peps your step.
• This led me to reaching deep into my vat of memories and yanking a soggy, bedraggled souvenir of my time in Japan. Coming back from the overpass. At the first of the two traffic lights before you get to the Funabashi junction. I remember seeing 15-20 men as I stand alert for a change of traffic lights. All standing, face lit up by their mobile screens. They had no intention of crossing the road in the opposite direction, meeting in the middle, our lives touching, crossing the void into one another’s consciousness, impugning on each other’s private haven for a momentary lapse. But they were happy where they were, silent, not moving a muscle. It felt remarkably Black Mirror-esque. As if they were in a trance and from which at any moment, they would twitch, crick their neck violently to the right, their programming synced fully into their brains, hypnotized, sending them on a frenzy to pillage and burn Funabashi to the ground. Strange. What you see as you run.
• We held hands as we ran the last hundred metres and finished it together.

So, what will I do today?

I want to be creative. Yeah, that would be brilliant. I want to enrich myself, challenge myself, make myself think and question everything around me. Woah, today is going to be quite the day. I’m sat upright, teeth brushed and flossed over, my hair has the poofiness of a wet dog after it has just run carefree and absent minded into a bog and I’m dressed in the finest of linen’s. This is perfect. I’m ready to delved into the squidgyness of who I am and grandiloquent vision of the world. I’m extemporising, but feeling fairly sanguine. Today will be a great day I repeat mantra-like, I have self-determined this path and no obstacle shall deter me, not even an ICBM serenading overhead from North Korea.

My computer is on, my notebook is gaping, desperate for feeling, the pen shaking epileptically, I am primed. I’m ready to be the next Henry Miller, I can fucking feel it. These words are going to be exactly what the WORLD wants to hear, it needs, I remind myself bashfully, quixotic in my ambition. Word is all set up. Font, character size, it’s done. I feel like there’s something missing. What will compliment this heady buzz stimulating my juices? MUSIC. Yes, that’s it. Spotify a go. I dip into my Saved Albums, I wonder how much time I’ve spent scrolling up and down, up and down, A-Z by way of Q, sucked in by the colour, the artwork, it’s amazing, I’m awed. I get to the ‘G’ and see Gucci Mane’s ‘Droptopwop’, sitting there minding it’s own business, it has been shelved for a while now I think to myself sorrowfully. I decide on this as my accompaniment, more out of obligation, need to make space and cut the dust gatherers, than an arbitrary decision or an apogee of a trend that having pricked my ears has sent me sealed and delivered to the bandos. However, if you haven’t heard it, it’s well worth it. Guwop is on fire, with his oft-imitated flow impenetrable, full of sinister bars, in alliance, symbiotically with the beats offered by Metro Boomin, it sounds like I’m at a human sacrifice, it’s brimming with hostility and incandescence and I’m enraptured.

This is the life. I’m three quarters through the album and the focus and desire to be creative I had previously trumpeted, has fallen deep off the wagon, lying amidst the sick and rubbish outside of your local Moons on a Saturday night. I’m crashing down towards the poor, unfortunate mountain village of boredom and ready to pack all this creative bollocks right in and have a wank. I need some visual stimulation, like a fucking baby. Youtube will be my friend and saviour. This will augment my spirit, propel me on the right path, vainly striving towards the work that I am meant to write, going to beat down that wall, just like Berlin, down with the Commie slags. But I need Youtube first.

I start watching tribute videos of Mario Mandzukic, the Croat footballer. Obviously, the habitual Eurotrash background music is muted straight out of there, Guwop is still soundtracking this scene. I think, upon consideration, he’s my favourite modern footballer. I like the fact that he possesses a real selflessness. I enthuse at his effectiveness as the first line of defense, harrying, hounding the opposition’s defenders, so to prevent a clean restart of play, where they would seek to progress upfield in one, two, three passes, messenger pigeoned to their zone of attack, he forces them sideways, backwards. Mandzukic doesn’t rest. Enough of the love in, I move on up the cyclone. I hear the line “JUST TO STING SOME NERK” and move on. It’s very easy to allow yourself to fall seduced into the slipstream of recommended videos and follow the mechanised chain to their logical conclusions. It’s dangerous how swift time will fly, unbeknownst to the inhabitant. I think it ticked with me how far in I was whilst I was learning about microplastics in our water. The mind does wander, and mine certainly did, at the effect it is having on our insiders. Can you imagine pissing some out, all ribbed, a clump sum of accumulated delights, screeching and dragging its jagged sides down your urethra. At this point, I thought this little venture best be cut short otherwise I’m sure I would and could find some likeminded videos of things being popped in and out of an urethra that would surely scorch my retina clean off. An hour and a half later from whence I started, I lock the Internet down and return to Word. My curiosity stymied and any perversions that are in constant, circling the rooms of my brain, checked at the door and thrown to the curb by the aggressive, gregarious standard keeper called my conscious. Be creative. I write a sentence, delete it. It’s dumb. I write a paragraph, momentum building, absolute bollocks, my pride chastened at the tosh I am spindling.

What to do? Maybe if I try and learn something, activating the different parts of my brain, research, absorb all details, write notes, form an opinion on the matter, make my arguments more sustainable. This is where I stand, this is my corner, my fiefdom when we carve up the despot state. I will learn about Nordstream 2, seems topical, controversial, an abundance of strings attached, Russia and Germany big dog geopolitical power plays. Truly fascinating. Back to Youtube, back to Google, scribbling notes down, no cohesion, just volume is necessary right now. Word is still empty, creativity completely abandoned. I check my phone see what is going on/anyone wants to talk. Nope, nobody, great. Lets get the notes organised, ISSUES, my big sub heading. Wow, this is going to change the world. My creativity has done a runner and I’m left with the liquefied natural gas Trump is trying to peddle to Europe and the fears that the underwater pipeline will dramatically damage the flora and fauna  of the Baltic Sea.

I’m fucked.

Kate Tempest & Loyle Carner- Guts

Link to music video

I enjoy the back and forths of this record. It’s wordplay is very sensory and visceral, it really painted a picture in my mind. I had never listened to Kate Tempest before and I was suitably impressed by her spiky delivery, especially her description of a gentleman spewing outside of Budgens.

Doja Cat- Down Low

Link to music video

This is high octane, energy music. The beat feels quite garage-y and it made me want to move my hips throughout the listen. Her lyrics are cheeky and sultry. But my favourite part is the way in which she switches up her flow, dictating the pace of the song, how she drawls her delivery, going from rapping to singing over the bridges, whilst doing it over a beat that is relentless in its tempo and ferocity. It never feels as if she is losing control of the music.

The Flying Burrito Brothers- Wild Horses

Link to music video

This is a cover of the famous Rolling Stones song that has circumnavigated the globe through being the go to of many a salary man/ part-time rockstars, in their darkened, smoke filled, inducing fits of coughing and watery eyes, karaoke booths, a fixture of any good night out, as well as the complimentary fried chicken, which you should definitely not go without. And unfortunately having listened to many versions of this, some falling squarely within the catastrophic range of the scale, I feel this song isn’t remembered as it should be, or done justice to by these drunken, howling tributes to lost love. However, listening to this version, all transgressions against the work of Messrs Jagger and Richards have been absolved in my eyes. The singer, Gram Parsons, whom was an affiliate of the band, really brings and shows the pained nature of the song, exposing it as this ode to a love that can never be and the torment that heart break brings. It feels hard to listen to, and the sadness he evokes in his delivery, it’s angellic, you feel as if someone has carved him open and you can just see his heart and it’s feeble pulse, the beat slowly decreasing on the verge of collapse and on the cusp of giving up on a world that has kicked and abused him till he is just a hull, that’s the pain he emotes. The greatest compliment you can give to a cover is when an artist takes a song, spins it on its axis and sparks new life within the words,  bringing an unbridled rawness and a new perspective on the pains of lost love, and this is what The Flying Burrito Brothers have done. So, thank you.

 

I’m at a party. I’m sitting downstairs. The life that previously burnt around the house is fading, the remainers are upstairs in one of the bedrooms I think. I was there but feeling slightly claustrophobic with all the chatter and slightly worried I was scaring people by me plonking myself into the corner and then proceeding to clean my trainers, an obsessive tendency that I am unwilling to resolve, I thought it best to remove myself from the situation. So, this is where you find me. I’m very cold. I found my jacket in the place that I had stowed it in secrecy earlier in the evening and have it on, buttoned up to the top, and collar erect. I’m happy with the state of my trainers, as I place my focus upon them momentarily, well worth the clean-up.  I’ve seen a girl wearing a North Face hoodie as her trousers, I don’t know my arse from my elbow at this point. A very comfortable, stylistic decision I consider internally. The friends I arrived with, have now departed.  I feel it pertinent to say that my comfortability has fallen astronomically without the safety blanket of my last line of defence, not to belittle my friends, but it is always nice when you try the excruciating task of introducing yourself to new people and having flopped, as a result of an awkward answer, laughter poorly timed or just nothing in common pure and simple, it is always good to have people you can rely on and whose conversation you will enjoy with little effort from either side, as well as being able to compare notes on the setting that we have found ourselves lost in. It is that, or the paranoia. That’s never fun. When you think back to the milliseconds of human interaction you’ve had with every person you’ve met this evening and considered every possible action, word you’ve uttered to them, double and triple thinking about what they may have taken from our shared encounter. It’s stressing me out as I look again at my trainers’ heels to check if I have avoided any prick standing on the back of them and planting some filthy scuffs upon these works of art. Laughter muffled through various wooden doors, the remnants of conversations, words, sounds carried through the house, reduces me to only gathering snippets of what is going on upstairs. I guess it is lonely. Maybe they are discussing how I must feel being the least attractive of my siblings, that question was posed to me within minutes of arriving tonight. It’s nice to get down to the real grittiness earlier. Yes, I’m okay with it, perfectly fine, as I stand out of camera shot of the gloried ones, keep the freak out, in the cage where he belongs. I think I should get my phone out. Yeah, that will do nicely. If someone comes down, it may look like I’m busy, just trying to sort out the Hong Kong stock market mate, I will cry, I’m losing points on my cement interests in the Far East! Chortling briefly with any passers-by. But in all honesty, my phone is now my only friend here. I can stay confined within the glorious blue light it radiates, I’m happy here. I don’t have to try and please anyone or do anything stupid or provide opportune moments for ridicule. Like a clown. So, I’ll check on Youtube. It is still fucking cold. There feels like a breeze coming from somewhere. Waiting for the phone to bleep into action, I stand, stamp my feet twice, like I’m in a PoW camp, trying to keep the cold from my bones as I take respite from the digging of identical trenches for potatoes, hoping they don’t get frozen too quick, and I find the back door open. I poke my head out, fuck that, and close it swiftly. I want to sit down, but I wouldn’t mind some water, lets find a clean glass amongst the debris. I return to my seat, glass sparkling and filled, and prepare to go down the vortex of cheap and gratifying laughs, with hopefully an educational tinge. I look at my recommended videos. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Anthony Hopkins. Alec Baldwin. A film called The Edge. Looks tragic but here goes. The epic voiceover voice takes hold giving us the pivotal backstory to these well formed and original character creations. Ooo intrigue, rivalry over Elle Macpherson, the ingénue. They give each other mysterious looks. “Each the essence of the civilised man”, the omniscient being informs me. I’m engrossed. They go on an adventure. And their plane is attacked by seagulls. What the actual fuck. They crash land, and they start twitching with bat shit between their eyes. Now, here in the wild, they’ve revealed their true selves. So much macho posturing. I’m tiring very quickly at this already, my concentration programmed now for just a meagre minute before it must find something else to satisfy itself with. Everything about this moment is grimy and depressing me the fuck out. I feel like King Grubb. Props to the British Rap Artist for possibly the greatest name ever. I am forced to turn it off as soon as we are introduced to the Kodak Bear stalking them through the woods. However satisfying it may be to see Alec Baldwin’s bearded face, screaming and foaming at the mouth as Bart the Bear tears off his leg. What the fuck am I doing? I’m still sitting in the cold, downstairs. I think I have had my time in banishment away from human contact, but at the same time I don’t want to go up there. Fuck it, I stand up, not even going to let my mind have any control over my actions. I want to engage with people, have some fun, be a charming guest, remembered fondly in the morning, rather than an insular, strange and forgetful guest. I am going to be great. As I walk up the stairs towards the noise. I’m psyching myself up. I’m going to ask these people what their opinions about the possibility of a Tory leadership battle, what they think about the re-nationalisation of the railways, and the most pressing question, does Brexit mean Brexit? It is going to be exhilarating. And my trainers look fantastic.

 

 

Figub Brazlevič- Roads

Link to music video

I found this whilst I was down the rabbit hole of Spotify’s Related Artists feature. Overwhelmed by the ferocity of this omnipotent algorithm, always ready, at the drop of the hat, to satisfy your wants and needs felicitously. You don’t even need to think, just click. Where would be, who knows, without it. I don’t know whether the mind numbing quality of this wondrous technological progression is a good or bad thing. Do we give too much of our decision making to something that is not us? Or should we appreciate the avuncular, metaphysical shoulder in which to lean on, in moments of uncertainty and temporary brain flux, when we are unsure of what music we want to hear.

I was drawn to the album artwork as well as its name ‘4×4 Palestine Road Beats’, I thought it looked and sounded quite cool. A nice collection of instrumentals, that work particularly well upon waking up, with you in desperate need of something to placate your coiled body and foul, sugarless mood, and help to deliver you to a more sanguine state of being. Which this certainly did.

Today, this is just me showing my respect to a supremely gifted and trendsetting artist whose influence I believe to be ubiquitous. This individual was birthed as Scott Mescudi, but you may know him better as Kid Cudi.

Through the way he structures songs, his ability to transport himself to a variety of genres, chameleon-like, appropriating new identities, challenging himself not just conventionally as a “HIP HOP ARTIST” but as a musician and student of the tribalism of music, sometimes with mixed results granted, but always bringing his distinct artistry to each. As well as his capability as a songwriter, I would argue him to be one of the best hook writers in music today, with the lyrical content and transparency he brings to each song that appeals so esoterically to his fans, addressing topics previously kept as far away as possible from the booth by the braggadocios, ultra-machismo rappers. This has helped to pave the sonic landscape we have today, influencing artists from the vain glorious Kanye West and Drake, to the more poetic, existential musings of a Frank Ocean. I hear moments and stylings within their music that are pastiches to Cudi, where the lineage from his pen to theirs, is well defined and well worn. His records are woven into the fabric of Hip Hop over the last decade, and as a result, he has become a reference point for many young artists whom after absorbing and saturating themselves with all things Cudi, catalysed their own artistic expression.

My own experience with Kid Cudi began like many with hearing the crossover bop “Day ‘N’ Nite” as a teenager. I enjoyed this, it was the only song I ever bluetoothed onto my Sony Ericsson, so it will always have a special place, but unfortunately, my sense of self or musical taste were still in its primacy, so any depth to music was lost dramatically upon me. I think the time I truly realised what a talent Cudi was, can be sourced to that glorious post-University period. There where the bubble had now firmly burst and was moulding, a cogent path to the future career, wife, house somewhat foggy and soiled underfoot and a great deal of listlessness bewitched my mind. So, when I did give Kid Cudi a listen, it shocked me how much of what he was saying spoke to my confusion and unease at the world around me. But, without sounding like a man constantly mired and lugubrious, who enjoys the premium state of self-induced despondency, the music solely offered me hope. It didn’t make me feel down but rather helped me to realise that we all go through episodes and moments of unhappiness, there’s nothing exceptional about my own issues and so as a result, why should this hold me back. This pushed me to see what could happen, to chance my arm with possibility, to be quixotic, to understand that you may be unsure but that is life, so why not give it my all. And so, whenever this dark state starts to raise its head within my sense of being, I always go to Cudi, and he helps. So, I thank him for that.

I have selected three Kid Cudi songs, my favourites, although I didn’t quite comprehend how difficult the decision making would be, all are different stages of Cudi’s eclectic musical journey.

Kid Cudi- Ghost!

Link to music video

I like how this reminds me of an early noughties indie-rock song. It really highlighted to me his ability as an artist, his ability to assimilate influences from what he likes, and formulate it in his own way. Very atmospheric, especially the chorus and the self-revelatory nature of it, I feel it epitomises his all-encompassing musical palate.

Kid Cudi- Speedin Bullet 2 Heaven (Acoustic Demo)

Link to music video

Obviously a very raw cut and differs significantly from the final version, but the demo really strikes something within me. I find it really haunting. A fragility in his words, breaking down into incomprehensible mutterings and humming as he works out what it is he wants to say, the pace of his accompaniment quickening and then dwindling. I think the audience are invited a peek at his creative process as well as seeing the depths of himself that he searches and rummages within to create a song. It is beautiful in its simplicity and really strikes at something at my innermost core. “I’m all smiles, I’m all smiles…alone in the dark..some people bore me…oh when I crash..when I crash, or if I land”. Sometimes I feel when I listen, there is something deeply terrifying about the song and the mindset of him at this moment in time, yet the optimistic ‘if I land’ suggests there is hope for him, and this I cling to.

Kid Cudi- Dance 4 Eternity

Link to music video

There is something so sensuous about it.  The trance-like rhythm, slow, meticulous, explorative, you feel as if you are alone with the person that you love and I feel Cudi’s delivery and words capture perfectly the intimate moments between the two of you, the whispered words, the subtle touch, the cravings to be next to them, feel their touch. Absolutely gorgeous.

 

The 14.37 Virgin West Coast train from Watford Junction to Birmingham New Street, what I saw and the people I witnessed.

• It started at the platform. Seeing couples conducting photoshoots, dramatic and brimming with edginess, in the artsy epicentre of the world. It will look fantastic on Instagram.
• Gucci trainers with their heels flattened, the backs of them completely ruined. Now they resemble sliders. What a waste.
• Everyone is engaged with something. Be it catching up on, grasping at a few minutes sleep before the day shifts into gear. Mobiles, books, conversation. No such thing as idleness here, punishable by death if caught.
• It smells inside the compartment. As if someone farted into an oven and left it to slowly crisp at 180 degrees.
• An old man is paddling his legs in the air, making sure the blood is circulating.
• Two University aged males talking. Their trainers look cool. They stop their bonding for their phones are more interesting. HA. HA. FUNNY.
• People with suitcases. I wonder where they have been. Going?
• Mother and Son. Mother wearing floral print dress, her son playing mobile games. He is wearing a suit. Mother’s pride and joy, she talks at him a lot. He is ……………………………. .
• A woman contemplating the message she is sending, phone in palm almost as if she is providing the offertory at Sunday Mass, hoping for Divine intervention and inspiration to smite her words.
• Salarymen. A worldwide phenomenon. This class in society. Battered leather shoes, ill-fitting trousers, shirt and tie hurried on, blazers dandruff encrusted. They need their mothers, babies in a suit. Do you think they dreamt of this existence?
• We stop our journey at Coventry to let people out and onboard. I see a child train spotter. Erudite in his approach, he whisks from his backpack all range of photographic paraphernalia. With a camera phone in hand, he rapaciously picks off his faceless targets. However, the purist within him soon grows unsatisfied at this joyless, scattergun approach. Instead he seeks a refined frame to capture this exquisite feat of man’s genii. And so, arises the death by delicacy of the long lens camera. His senses are attuned for movement, unexpected digresses of weather, changes to his surroundings. All these factors and more, he considers as he awaits his shot through his hyper-extended lenses. Trains pass so my sight is blurred. It has also started to rain a touch, in a very obstinate way, slow, drawn out. He is still fixated when my view is returned. I hope he is cracking a smile, contented in his past time. He doesn’t appear to be suffering the side effects of the weather, still just a burgundy sweater on his person. Focus does help to take your mind off needless worries like body temperature.

The term Modus Vivendi springs to mind. An agreement, arrangement that allows conflicting parties to co-exist in peace.

Apt somewhat.

St Vincent- Los Ageless (DJDS Version)

Link to music video

I am very sad that this is only 2 and a bit of change minutes. I have dipped in out of St Vincent, listening whenever the fancy took over, but never describing myself as a huge fan. But whenever I did, I have never been disappointed. Her latest album “MASSEDUCTION” is fantastic, and if you haven’t given it a go, it would be to your benefit.

Like many great artists before and most certainly after her, this is her ode to the city of Los Angeles. This version, as mixed by DJDS, feels stark, stripped back in comparison to the original. I can imagine it playing in a discreet, slovenly bar for the burn outs, those cynical to the life that they were promised by Hollywood movies, whom with time, year after year, have seen their dreams floating away, patched into the reality of bills, car repayments and getting older, losing your lustre and appeal. It seems to me to be a  ballad to the frailed ones who call this idiosyncratic place their home, affixed with their glistening dentures. I swear that when all is done, with everything reduced to dust, all that will be left of this city will be plains of pearls.