Stalking the house in a low-cut blouse. A head full of gin, the ingrained disappointment that we’re not all living in the future with our jet packs, protein pills, tin foil tailoring, but instead: stationed in some recalcitrant homage to flaccid retrospection. The net result is a listening to specific records – very specific records – over and over and over. Like a monkey with a miniature cymbal, no doubt.
“Your words are growing too obtuse, too esoteric. Few care for the constant clutch of long-forgotten lyrics. And besides, you have a filthy mouth”.
I’m proudly OCD about recorded music. I am John Cusack in High Fidelity (without the relationship hang-ups, with the geeky friends). On so many occasions I find myself hitting repeat, so engrossed in the mechanics of a particular song that constant exposure – say seven or eight times in succession – is the solitary course of action. This is totally normal, right? Everybody does it, yeah? “Sorry, I can’t come to the phone right now, I have “Roof, Rook, Crook, Crow” by Rozi Plain on a loop, and if I pause, something truly horrible is going to occur”. I swear that’s what happened when I last phoned you. And just because I spent the first few hours of a virgin Sunday in the company of Engineers and a bottle of cheap malbec, it doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m strange like you…
Engineers / Subtober (which genuinely has been on a loop far, far too often. I really should get out more. Take some exercise).