Hitting the sad part of the story. The novel’s false crescendo. The restrained, synthetic tears, the soundtrack cranking up towards something, anything. Probably a record ill-suited for any occasion. Something embarrassing, something mired in its own strain of self-obsession. “Into The Blue” by The Mission springs to mind. I might play that later. Alcohol and late nights usually trigger a gravitation towards goblin goth-rock with preposterously overblown lyrics and the swagger of a man in eye-liner during ‘rock nite’ kicking-out hour.
But then again, I should perhaps stop saying nasty things about bands and singers (especially considering Morrissey’s latest antics – any other Guardian readers notice how, online at least, there’s a weird kind of obsession thing going on, with every minor mishap or waspish sentiment blown up towards news proportions? Hardly a week goes by without some sneering aside garnished with wave upon wave of semi-literate, missing-the-point reader comments. There’s been two in the last few days alone…).
So yeah, that was my day. Another train journey and another novel, then the creeping fear of mundanity dressed up as some tedious, one-dimensional misanthropy. For my next trick: wine, more wine, cheap goth music, with tomorrow being another day.
Suuns / Arena
Washed Out / Eyes Be Closed