The garret in autumn. Stacks of notebooks, and then the records – hoards congregating around the floor besides the desk like the cogs, gears and pulleys of a malfunctioning funicular. There’s an element of thinking involved. Involuntary, reflexive. Records by Royal Trux. By Lee Hazelwood, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, The Band. Songs performed a cappella, or with the bass guitar sound triple-tracked. Lyrics iridescent, evocative, or simply plain dumb:
I am an architect, they call me a butcher.
He does the military two-step up and down the nape of my neck.
I didn’t like you very much when I met you, and now I like you even less.
And so it goes. Tracks performed by shiny people in rather fetching hats. Men Without Hats. Hats by The Blue Nile. Nile Rodgers. Kenny Rogers…you get where I’m going here, don’t you? There’s no point as such; simply the complicit features of a Joan Jett grinning up at me from an old LP sleeve. Grab your coat; you’ve pulled.
Royal Trux / Juicy Juicy Juice
The Brian Jonestown Massacre / Whoever You Are