23 December 2006

2007 and What it Holds

2007 and What it holds.


Fortuitously, just as 2006 draws to a close, I have chanced upon the future of music, it’s next great life injection; one that should sustain it for many years to come. Why me you might ask? Me whose contribution to music thus far has consisted of little more than youthful preening, burning holes in the ozone layer with endless hairspray applications, wallowing in abject onanistic misery, and some tongue in cheek cynicism that the over thirty fives found mildly amusing for about a day and a half. Answer is – I don’t know – except, I always knew I was blessed in some way. Destined to leave the planet much better than I found it - and be celebrated as an Avatar of greatness of some sort…a fuck-off monument at Highgate cemetery awaits.
Formerly, I’d imagined the flesh of this vision to be another leather clad rock’n’roll messiah…except I wasn’t quite saucy enough – only just. Then a poetic chronicler of humanity in a charity shop suit, who could still pull the ladies…sadly it had already been done – and by much better than me. Then - I was condemned to years of surfing the zeitgeist – actually holding the towels for the surfers, despairing that my moment would never come – but tonight dear people – IT HAS. I’ve stumbled across the triple helix, enigma machine, dead seas scroll, Piltdown man, Da Vinci code. And it’s only half past eight.

Before I carve this delicious butter roasted organic turkey - who actually volunteered himself for destruction, cremation and mastication down the piste of your discerning, well bred, well read gullets, down to the hellish caverns of your - expectant, sugar almond and ginger-wine cobbled guts, let me fill you in on a few preliminaries to set the scene – a drop of Baileys to lubricate your festive death hatches. We’re not talking a laboratory in Cambridge with Harris tweed, corduroy and leather-patch wearing wunderkind -We’re talking a studio flat above a garage in North London, with underachievement, alcoholism and imminent death.

This week, I became another crime number in the metropolitan police’s little red book – another one night stand. The CD player was removed from my vehicle by persons unknown - without my consent. My 74 litre Porsche 4x4’s ( actually a VW Polo) contents were strewn inside the vehicle as the miscreants searched for items that might be of value at the crack house. Amazingly, not one of my CD’s was deemed worthy of theft.
Beneath the drivers seat of my assaulted and still distressed motor car, almost beyond the reach of human fingers, lay a cd of Prokofiev’s Lieutenant Kije Suite. You know the one…la lala lala la la lala la la lala la la lala la…Troika…’I believe in Father Christmas’…come on Guardian readers, you do know it.
As it happens, my dear daughter Ava has been singing it for weeks – rehearsing it for her school carol concert – which has now taken place and was divine…even though she burst into tears on learning that there was still half a day’s schooling left at the end of it and that we weren’t taking her home. Anyway, being a clever, thoughtful dad who likes to pull together life’s various strands I retrieved the cd and played it. Scratched to buggery – and not I think, the malicious act of Chalk Farm’s junior drug addicts – although my insurance claim form will almost certainly dispute this.
For the past three hours, I have been listening to the most random, disjointed digital loops of classical music it is possible to imagine. Beautiful textures, orchestral sequences, winding back on themselves, no linear sense at all, but still providing a gorgeous, orchestral soundscape. If I write some lyrics, raps, and hire some sexy backing singers to shimmy and shake in the background, I’ll be onto a winner. Think Howl, think TS Elliot, think Grandmaster Flash…Being articulate over scratched CD’s. the oracle atop the rubbish heap – how radical is that?..it ’s a rhetorical question by the way.
Also in 2007…probably with the money from my cd-bits hits, I intend to form a political party to win the elections…something like The English Renaissance Party or something – where we all check into hotels and save the nation…and I want to come off anti-depressants at some point. Not sure when.

Last bit. For Divorced Dads.

Daddy. " Ava, can I have a little chat with you about Christmas?"
Ava " Yes."
Daddy " Well this year, you’re going to have two Christmas days – one with Mummy and one with Daddy. Do you like that idea?"
Ava " No. "
Daddy " But why not?"
Ava " Because I want to spend both of them with Mummy. "

Merry War. Christmas is Over.

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