November dark and mystifying crash courses in aimless, plotless loss of direction. Late night cocktails and pick-a-back rides down the middle of the road at midnight. Bruce Lee on the telly. Standing on doorsteps and talking to the stars about sapphires. Half hidden ghosts of boyfriends and girlfriends future, past and present. The night collapsing. Lungs emptied. Convulsions in the desolate early morning; waking nightmares, stinging tears on the pillow and a rug full of vomit. Weeping for the things that are lost and never to be found. Thoughts of the hopes to come. Flickers doused by more alcohol and an idle cigarette. Pull down the shades, slip on the ice, fall through the holes.
These are the things I remember.
I’m not even sure why.
Nice one Alistair. It's delightful how great the first few Chameleons albums still sound, isn't it? They've been going 'round my head recently the way random songs do.
Posted by: Tim B. | May 01, 2009 at 22:03
Thanks Tim, yeah, every so often those early Chameleons records resurface in my head. It's always a pleasure. And hey, did I see your name in the Mick Jones' R'n'R Library guest book at the the Chelsea Space? That was one of the highlights of my birthday. That and meeting some lovely old and new friends for drinks, which is the kind of pleasure one always delights in, of course.
Posted by: alistair | May 01, 2009 at 22:25