Surfing the specifics of your musical voyage. Tracks played, tracks ingested, tracks experienced, then dissected, then reassembled in dexterous, personal patterns. I’m less interested in the individual components of songcraft – the mechanical detail of assemblage and execution remain fascinating from a technical aspect, but they don’t carry the allure of end-user interaction. No – like a building, a bridge, or a fine bottle of malbec, form is nothing without the function. There’s the requirement for imagination, for human perception to give life to a song.
Which is (one reason) why I’m so enamoured by the whole music + headphones + wine + darkened room thing. Perhaps ridiculously so – having invested half a lifetime flitting between scuzzy venues in more than one country, questing for some ultimate gig experience as if I’m a mundane travelogue being filmed by Peter Jackson (or more likely the source material for a badly written Choose Your Own Adventure jape) – it’s the intimacy of sound, the dynamic between alcohol and lying prone on the floorboards as something flows tide-like that grows in appeal. Or stature. Or blah blah is this a sad old man trying to flog his iPod blah blah?
(So I guess I’m either too old to understand the latest Hot Chip album. Too young. Too drunk and jaded).
I started writing this piece – before the joys of the delete key came calling… and the floorboards and the headphones and the cheap bottle of supermarket plonk grabbed hurriedly during the pretence of a hectic lifestyle – by noting that a Fuck Buttons track was played during the Olympic Opening Ceremony (or so sources close to the action tell me – I’m always otherwise engaged when it comes to communal televised moments). Seriously – what sort of twisted, atavistic universe has a Fuck Buttons track pumping out of the PA system during Corporate Clusterfuck Sportsday? It’s perilously close to the reality I inhabit – even if Danny Boyle movies (and by extension, his opening ceremonies) have a sublime habit of seguing closely with the soundtrack.
I expect – or even demand – pomp and circumstance underpinning these types of global occasion. Regimen on horseback or side-saddle, Brian May playing guitar from palatial rooftops. Herberts dressed in traditional attire viewed as obsolete even in the seventeeth century whilst Bon Jovi are hoisted aloft on glittering gantries, ‘Livin’ On A Prayer’ piped directly into five billion cranial voids. In fact, I’ll just drink me some more of this wine, then add hundreds of increasingly surreal, caustic, and just plain dirty things I’d expect to see at an opening ceremony. Or maybe just hit the headphones…
Fuck Buttons / Olympians