Don't Write Tired

Tiredness filled the page. The young artist watched as the canvas filled itself with ink, almost by magic. When he awoke in the morning he didn't know who'd been in his drawing room. He remembered a rough sketch, a simple idea, and a palette full of colours which he didn't know what to do with. When he awoke his ideas had been realised, his palette emptied, he almost felt betrayed. His subconscience came out and it filled the canvas and something about it made him sad, hopeless. Somehow it felt like he didn't own the beauty because he didn't remember creating it.

Who knows where thoughts come from. They just appear. That's right Lucas. That's right.

I have a blog? I have a blog. I'm at uni... versity. Glasgow, since you ask. Updates will begin again. Sometimes you get so lonely in this place all you can do is write. Especially when you can't download. Then you upload.

FOR THE TINIEST MOMENT IT'S ALL NOT TRUE

It's light and floating. Children's toys strike a chord. They sparkle with innocence. The voice is matter-of-fact. There is blind hope in this song. There are tears and there are memories. There is joy and glitter. Imagine colouring books lying open on a hall table. Imagine a telephone lying beside it. Imagine the chance of a fresh start, a beautiful dream, one final pleasant sleep next to a pillow smelling of her perfume.

Snow Patrol

You Could Be Happy

There are heart-felt tears. There are regrets. There are mistakes. There is a dream of forgiveness. There is real-life.

YOU SAY NOTHING'S WORTH A FIGHT NO MORE

You say... every day's the same,
But I will never close my eyes again.

Difficulties. Stupidity. Loss of innocence. You will be judged. Everyone knows.

Why is there suffering?
Without suffering there would be no compassion.
Tell that to those who suffer.

That's from some film. Maybe "A Walk To Remember". Anyway. The End. [I hope not]

Disco Ensemble

Mantra

If it's something to die for;
if it's something to cry your heart out for;
when the times are hard, don't walk away,
don't walk away from me

Sadness Echoes

Sadness is something that some people are born with. Sometimes it is immovable. I believe I was born with sadness. Certain events trigger it. Self-loathing is occurent everynow and then. Words are made up to describe feelings emotion. Sometimes a scream is better than a thesis. Ralph Waldo Emerson. I could type shflkjldksghkjh and it would make as much sense as a fully coherent sentence right now. Elliott Smith is playing through the speakers. Sometimes people do stupid things and cover them up with words, lines, sentences. Not expressing the whole truth is the same as a lie. The truth should always come easy, there should never be mistakes made, the world should be an idyllic place. Sadness is expressed with words, with tears, with sighs. Sadness is expressed with silence, with trembling, with body language. Stand slumped over a shelf. Lie down on a bed and not want to get up. We all have the potential to be horrible, horrible people. We all have the potential to be monsters. We all have the potential to do something great. Dreams keep us alive. I had one today. It was beautiful at the time, but afterwards - two to three hours, or five minutes, I can't remember - I realised that it was too ideal, too pleasant, too simple. Too impossible. Everything is always fucked up, sometimes. Faith.

Find your own song.

Fiction Becomes Fact. Mistakes Are Made.

Sometimes you create a song about what you've become. What you will become. What you might become. Unwittingly, the subconscience within you will become an outward thing. The text comes from 'The Contortionist's Handbook', by Craig Clevenger. The last line is from the Biffy Clyro song 'Justboy'. Fiction... will become fact. My voice, tells me the truth almost as a mistake. Sad but definitely hopeful. I should keep listening. I should keep listening. I should keep listening. Sometimes silence is the most awful thing.

The white, twenty-five to thirty year old, American male, drinks twelve to fourteen beers a week, or five to seven glasses of wine a week. The average legal limit in most states is .08 BAC which is about two beers. So two beers gets you legally drunk. The implicit question is not, How much do you drink? but, How often do you get legally drunk? or, How often do you have more than two beers within a given hour during the course of a week. I'm legally drunk seven days a week, but no one needs to know that... From the dark clouds a light will break through.



We Came In A Coma

From The Dark Clouds A Light Will Break Through (Chapter 1)

As Elliott Smith wrote, "I'm not half what I wish I was."

Stop Repeating Yourself

Drugscene

Coronation

A skyscraper stands proudly in the middle of Los Angeles. There are angels in the architecture, dancing around the double-glazed windows. Curtains have been pulled across the sun. There's commotion, like there's always commotion. Laughter but very little. Hustle and bustle and chatter and nerves and tension. Second chances and dreams being shattered. Lights flicker into focus and out again. Reflections are there to be stared at. By the time of the chorus your surroundings have changed, but you don't realise. So distracted by your own indie-chic-ness. You're in a club with lights on off disco glitter lights flicker. Pounding pounding disco music. Lights flash cameras flash girls flash so much music so much noise just get lost in the music now now now.

Drugscene are typically stylised, typically cool, I haven't seen the press photo's but in my mind's eye it would make sense if they're wearing tattered suits and flippant red ties with long-short hair and beautiful smiles like moviestars. Imagine The Killers and Hot Hot Heat and We Are Scientists and The Bravery and the million and one other bands that those names conjure up. Imagine a catchy indie-rock beat beat beat. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it's like watching a waterfall with the water running out. The focus is on creating a song based around a melody and sometimes the melody isn't there. They do succeed, however, on Coronation. Listen, count the influences on two hands, and dance, simultaneously. Bonus points for realising that it sounds like they hired in Conor Oberst for the vocals and gave him an extra dose of indie-dance-ability in his morning cup of coffee. [Discover]

dance dance drink sleep drink dance write poetry

I'm tired. In fact, I'm in bed. I was out last night. I saw Oppenheimer. Hang on... Oppenheimer? Yes, Oppenheimer. They are FANTASTIC live. Absolutely. I'm going out tonight as well, after work. First, I must go to town to see Oppenheimer. Hang on... Oppenheimer? Yes, Oppenheimer. For free. In Cool Discs. An intimate gig? An intimate gig. Can't beat that with a big stick. But like I said. I'm tired. Too tired. I'm not going to write anything. Here's a poem, and some songs. Maybe they're linked? Or maybe I wrote the poem ages ago and found it and thought well I'm too tired to post but would like to post so fuck it. Maybe.



Untitled

for every little thing a name.
a new label
a description
making it seem amazing, new, trendy, fashionable,
marketable
love prepackaged
phone the number
written in black
on the barcode
i wonder if you can afford it
if not just join the lines
make them all the same thickness
for no reason
other than.
it. fucks. with. the system.
so why not?

You Say Party! We Say Die!

The Gap (Between The Rich And The Poor)
Cold Hands! Hot Bodies!
Love In The New Millenium

you won't disappoint me; i can do that myself

I was in London for a week. Before that I was in the North Coast of Ireland... soaking up the rain. Yet... London was hot; sweltering; beautiful. So much to be absorbed in so little time. So much to do but so little money. Just the will, the determination. You can learn a lot, and feel a lot, just by walking around a city slowly. Well, I've been away, so this hasn't been updated. Here's a post / a draft / a rough attempt at putting feelings into words, which I've had kicking about since before London.. Since that time when I was walking beaches in the North Coast getting wet, getting cold, enjoying the view, being enlightened by the darkness.



Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglov

When Your Mind's Made Up

Running through a foreign city in the middle of their summer. Or is it their summer? Maybe it's winter? Do they have a winter? You can't tell, everything is new to you. These market stalls filled with kitchen utensils and throwaway junk, all these walls made of dust. The only water you've seen since you've been here was on your windscreen when that kid, he ran out, and he shouted, he waved, you nodded - obsequious - and he showed you his hands - a filthy t-shirt, and some dirty dish water, and he washed your windscreen.

It's two weeks later, and you suddenly realise she's never loved you. She just walked out the door fifty-seven minutes ago - you know, because you've been counting the seconds; said she was away for the groceries, even though the make-shift cupboard is full. You're running through this foreign city and you realise all these things about yourself - things that hurt you, things that confuse you. You're a desperate man. You don't even know if you love her, but you'd do anything for her, anything in the entire world, and you tell her time and again. She laughs. You laugh. It's a running joke between the two of you; only with you, it's the truth. You make it trivial as if you'd do it for anyone... You tell yourself you're a considerate, caring, compassionate person. You tell yourself you love everyone equally. You would do it for everyone. You would. You would. Would you?

You know you wouldn't... and that's why you're out the door in a flash, running the streets trying to find her, the only thing that holds you together; the only person that makes you feel whole, like a real human - like a nice person. With her you are at least half of what you wish you were. We never learn, do we?

Glen Hansard & Marketa Irglov

Leave

But maybe, just maybe, you learnt something about yourself. It's doubtful but it's possible. And maybe, just maybe, it was something essential. Something necessary. Something undeniable. It doesn't matter how it was learnt - through alcohol abuse, or running screaming through the darkness, or with your head on a pillow soaking in your own tears and praying for sleep. And maybe, just maybe, this song is the essence of that realisation. The guitar and the words and the voice, when experienced live, are overwhelming. This studio version is only a let-down in so much as my eyes don't well up with emotion I never knew I still felt, the way they did when I heard it, live, for the first time - performed by Glen, on his own, as an encore, with just an acoustic guitar and that voice.

[Buy / Discover]

A shoebox stuffed with memories

I've been living in other people's houses, staying away from the internet and over-dosing on alcohol - hence the lack of writing. It'll calm down at some stage.



Bran Van 3000

Speed

James DiSalvio is a conjurer. He is a magician who folds different coloured handkerchiefs up his sleeve and lets them unravel at will. He wears long sleeves at all times. They hold an abundance of tricks which fall out into his songs with subtlety. This song is a shoebox stuffed with post-cards from friends you've forgotten, pictures bursting with sunlight, letters written with joy and read with sadness. I first heard this on a compilation CD that came free with Uncut magazine. It is the essence of my childhood - as far as soundtracks go. It's filled to the brim with Bruce Springsteen references. They're there, they're obvious, will you pick up on them? It wasn't these references that sent the shivers down my spine when I rediscovered this gem. It was the sheer exuberance of the composition - yet it was also the extreme sadness that folded out and scoured my soul, looking for my heart... It found its target.



Bran Van 3000

Drinking in L.A.

Is this other song - by the same band - last years summer? I remember one extreme session - "just me and a friend... working on a movie" - sipping on vodka and orange diluting juice until around six am, sunlight coming over the hill. You've probably heard this one before. I hadn't until about a month ago. I got my hands on a digital copy straight away. I think it was the video that persuaded me. Visually it's someone waking up sleepy-eyed in the morning. Not quite hungover, yet not quite right. Tired and happy, bemused and smiling. You don't really care that you wasted the day before - there's a whole summer to do something constructive. But you know, deep down, that maybe some other people are mad at you about your laissez-faire attitude. But hey, fuck it. The sun is out and shining. The clouds are lazy as they sway from one side of the sky to the other. A dazzling blue. A brilliant gold. A lazy summer.

Mini Saturday Mix

I posted a mix-tape I had made, as one of the very first posts on this blog. That can be found here. It's Saturday, I'm tired, I'm going out soon, so I figured instead of not posting anything, I should post the tracks from that which are still online, so that maybe you can investigate some new music. Sounds good to me. Some of them have appeared here before, but... Here they are:



Songs from my very first online mixtape

Dispatch - The General
Voxtrot - The Start Of Something
The Spill Canvas - All Hail The Heartbreaker
Robin Allender - We, Emmanuel Light, Love Ocean
Great Lake Swimmers - Moving Pictures, Silent Films
Reverie Sound Revue - Walking Around, Waiting Downtown
The Silent Type - Ink and Blood
Say Hi To Your Mom - Hooplas Involving Circus Tricks

Watching The Fire Burning

Astronautalis

Ocean Walk (Highly Recommended!)

The self-proclaimed "Van Morrison of rap" actually sounds like Bruce Springsteen sitting around a garden full of midges, rapping over a loose lazy piano line - played by the head of Bella Union (Simon Raymonde). This song is a breeze of fresh air; the spinning of your head as you fall from a long day's hassle and sweat into your bed - still dirty but relaxed. The constant talk of 'steps til' is reminiscent of an Army Sergeant preparing his men for the march ahead. The fields of life they'll have to walk through. The beaches they'll fall apart on. Words don't quite describe this song. It's more of a feeling you experience. Like walking through the city across seasons - past the homeless freezing outside in Winter; past the youth's breaking into cars during Summer. Like a barbeque with friends that gets rowdy. But you know it will all work out ok. This song is the sound of summer - sad, reluctant, lazy, hopeful, triumphant.



Astronautalis

Somethin' For The Kids
Gaston Ave.

#1: Slow, silly, summer. Once again, hopeful. Opportunities sprawl in front of us and lie down like sleeping dogs. We have to know what to do with them when the time comes. Similarities can be found with Shawn Mullans' Lullaby.
#2: Do I hear 'A Wolf At The Door'? A nice female vocal is tethered onto the mix. Chill out for the chilled out. But neither of these two songs quite match up to the brilliance that is Ocean Walk, it seems - they're mere sketches in comparison to the fully realised potential.

Simon Raymonde's first impressions: 'A very young kid from Florida. This guy was so... so articulate, so intelligent. A really beautiful kid. Looks like a beach, sort of, surfer, sort of, dude.'

Bonus:

Radiohead - A Wolf At The Door

[Listen / Closely / Buy]

Something about those bright colours would always make you feel better

Bright Eyes

Haligh, Haligh, a lie, Haligh

Where did my love affair with Bright Eyes start? Was it on that balcony in Spain through the cheap broken headphones connected to a now broken mini-disc player? Or was it all those nights I stayed up 'til 7am on the internet? It was dial-up then. Every song had to be worth it. And how many Bright Eyes songs did I download that were woeful (no pun intended) - constructed with the most heartbreaking lyrics yet delivered with the most unlistenable voice?

Too few, it seems. Since that time three or four years ago, Conor Oberst has changed his sound a bit. He's become more versatile, able to deliver electronic renditions with a heart, and traditional country singer-songwriter tales with real emotion - not just the faux, take-it-or-leave-it pop kind associated with the style. And obviously, his vocals have become much more... mainstream? Less raw in any case.

But back then... A dog barks. A kid whines. Still young, still growing up, still melodramatic. Let your guard down and you'll feel the emotion. You won't write it off, as another piece of hipster chic. It's not another angsty anthem. It's genuine emotion; innocent, broken-hearted, strummed solemnly.

But now we speak with ruined tongues
And the words we say aren’t meant for anyone.
It’s just a mumbled sentence to
A passing acquaintance,
But there was once you.

Even if you hate his voice - and many do - you have to admit that his lyrics are breath-taking. I relate to that little excerpt quite a lot. It's a smile, a nod, and a turn away. Find a distraction quickly. Speak quietly and hope she doesn't hear you. You understand the way things are now; you were her best friend, now you're not. Are you unclear? Do you not understand how things ended up this way? Go on, let the guard down. Break it down through tears and alcohol. Let yourself be free of all your lies, just for this minute.

He says the choices were given
And now, you must live them
Or just not live,
But do you want that?

Fuck.

Me.

---

Bonus:

Bright Eyes - Padraic My Prince
* [this song is the definition of lo-fi intensity]

Elsewhere: Daytrotter has some excellent session songs by Casey Dienel. Not only is the writing on the site constantly excellent, but they also feature fabulous artists, and host exclusive tracks. Do you need reasons to like Casey Dienel? Ok. She's got a lovely voice. She's been compared to Regina Spektor. She covers Pavement as one of her session songs [...And now we see the flock follow the hyperlinks]. She sounds like this:



Casey Dienel

The La La Song

Intrigued? Discover her Daytrotter session.

World Cup Round-up

Maybe your team didn't get into the World Cup [thank you Ireland]. So? There's 32 countries in it... Surely you'll find one, no? Well, due to a work thing where teams were drawn out of a hat, I'm now Spanish for a month. Call me Amadeo. So without further ado:

Most Impressive So Far:

Spain (amazing football.)
Croatia (Can't think what to say other than: you know it's true.)
Argentina (who else was over-awed by today's performance? Seriously... 24 passes, 9 players involved... all for one goal. Top stuff.)

Biggest Disappointment:

Brazil (What age is Ronaldo anyway? I remember watching him in like 1994 and he was a superstar. Is he like 90 now? However, they do have Kaka... and Kaka is a LEGEND.)

Least Deserving of ANY Hype:

England (Trinidad and Tobago? And you struggled? 'nuff said.)

Out But Should Be In:

Poland (can't believe Germany beat you in the most boring match of the century... that was unfortunate)

Who do I think will be in the final?

Spain and Brazil with Argentina getting to the semi's at least.

Anything else?

One word left. Two syllables. Have you guessed what it is yet?



Bouncing Souls

Ole

Jesus, Etc

Wilco

Jesus, Etc.

This song by Wilco is beautiful and sombre; it's uplifted and innocent. Like a kinder-garden kid who painted a picture, and then placed it on the fridge with his favourite Ben & Jerry's fridge-magnet. The picture was surrealist; cheap paint on thick paper - dispersed unevenly, dispersed joyfully. The picture was of a baby; no, not a baby. The picture was nothing more than a crescent; highly visible - luminous even - in the flourescent pink and green he'd chose. You might say it looked like the moon but it didn't. What it did look like was a frown. And the boy turned it upside down to make a smile. And he smiled at what he'd done.

But this song isn't childish: like I said, it's beautiful. It's chirping from the start. You turn to your lover and you tell her you love her. You make these rhymes that sound silly on paper, but charming and alluring wrapped up in melodies. And who can't relate to the line, "last cigarettes are all you can get, turning your orbit around", apart from non-smokers? [yes, I realise the silliness of my point. but a fact is still a fact.]



I guess I don't have a point other than this: I can relate to it. I think it's beautiful. I've said beautiful lots and lots of times, and that's because it's true. It's got a country twang, an indie intelligence, a lyrical flawlessness and a strong focus on melody. It hasn't been on that many blogs, and it's a shame. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was lauded, and I mean, lauded by Pitchfork - it was one of those rarities: the album that managed to get all 10.0 points... It's why I bought it in the first place. And it seemed a bit weird, at the time, considering I was thirteen.

I ripped open the packaging and put the album in the CD player, waiting to be blown away instantly. But I wasn't. There was lots of seemingly useless noise scattered around the mix. I know now I was missing the point - I think I knew then - because albums - the truly touching/amazing/intriguing ones - take their time to grow. And what I also realised straight away - upon the first notes of this song - was that when they did away with the pretension and the experimentation, Wilco still managed to come out with an absolutely amazing song. And the song is neither complex nor exceedingly simple - just perfect in its innocent execution, like the kid who paints a frown and turns it upside down. The two states are interchangeable, he thinks, when he looks back on it now.

Silly, silly, silly!

First things first: Let's hope I don't resort to doing this tomorrow.



So, let's fill in the odd detail here and there. I love Radiohead. I liked Thom Yorke's solo album, The Eraser, and will obviously be buying it when it comes out. Yet others criticised it; got frustrated with it. They thought it was a lack-lustre performance. Like a dull and average all-star Brazilian team; notable only for the big name involved, and not the actual quality of the album.



Listening to early early Radiohead demo's [from the days when they were called On A Friday] is a bit like that photo. Big names involved; lots of happiness. Silly glee. Stupid bliss. Before anti-anti-anti-everything kicked in. When youthful and still dreaming. Shouting about random stuff. Happily, sillily, stupidly. Grinning wildly. Oh, sweet innocence.

I apologise for the writing in this post; it's abbreviated, it's shortened, it's forgetful, it's leaving out details, it's neglectful: it's average. That's what On A Friday are. Like that band that played in your local pub that you can't remember the name of. You know they provided you with a few laughs - but why? Was it happiness or was it a scornful laugh? Could you do better? Whatever. Just lap it up and smile.

Radiohead (formerly On A Friday or Shindig)

How Can You Be Sure?
Upside Down
Life With The Big F
Sinking Ship

#1: I recommend 'How can you be sure?' Lazy in execution; Thom Yorke smiling through half-hearted tears. These demo's were recorded in the summer of 1990; a summer-break from University for the band. Unsurprisingly then, the lyrics seem to describe University life: the alcohol, the poverty, the uncertainty, the relationships, the occasional downer. The recording quality is poor - sounds like it's been recorded in his Halls - but the song overall is still endearing and lovely to listen to.

#2: 'Sinking Ship' is endlessly fascinating: there's saxophone - cheerful saxophone; Thom's 'the captain of the boat'. It brings a smile to the face of a weatherbeaten sailor.
#3: 'Upside Down' - nothing much to say - 'can't stop loving you', dear Radiohead?
#4: 'Life With The Big F': what's going on? Why's he happy? What's he la-la-la-ing about? Is he slaggin' off the French? Fuck it, I don't care anymore.

For more information, and the other 14 tracks feel free to go here and here - that's where I got the tracks from in the first place. Excellent discoveries are excellent. Say thank you to Pierre.

Heylo sunshine

I was going to write something spectacular and flowing; imagetic and hectic. Well, I think I'll save that for tomorrow, since right now my head is still floating around in cyber-space somewhere and when I listen to music with any drums what-so-ever everything goes fuzzy and something inside my skull cracks and splits and then aches. So, for now, make do with sunshine and lollipops, in the form of Lily Allen's two mixtapes. And yes Lily, your shadow does look like 'Peter Pan in a pixie hat':



Lily Allen

My First Mixtape
Mixtape #2

I haven't found the time to listen to these in their entirety yet, but all of her songs are rather good. Charming with lots of potential. And if you must make the comparisons: yes, she does sound like a female version of Jamie T; yes, there is a distinct link between her music and that of Mike Skinner; yes, there are many more that will undoubtedly be made... but not by me; not right now.



The first mixtape starts with 'LDN', the song that everyone has been fawning over. The song of course being a sort of 'i love you London' endorsement that is never overly flattering, and always honest, whilst being, yes, charming. It's like a badge to stick on your blouse; except you stick it on your iPod instead and play it in the background as you lie down on a sunbed and read your favourite novel. That's it... after song numero uno you're on your own. Enjoy the discovery. Think Disney. Be happy.

[Read a review of 'My First Mixtape' - click]

this X is a surrender

Study too much. Study too little. Learn nothing. Learn exasperation.

Chad VanGaalen

Clinically Dead

Feeling: dead - broken heart, broken spirit, crushed demeanour. When I walk my arms hang by my sides. My knees bent - ready when the time comes to roll over, fall on my back, sleep forever. I'm dreaming. They saw my youth and they stole it from me. Replaced my free-will, my vigour, with emotions too complex for me to understand. Placed textbooks in front of me and insisted, "These are a distraction! These are essential!" I tried to absorb every word from those books. I tried to glean sense, knowledge, sort it through in my head, compartmentalise everything into different theories, thoughts, transitions; different feelings isolated, then placed into darkness - took away all lightbulbs. I convinced myself I would perform perfectly, like a well-oiled machine in these exams. Dream on.

Why don't you put up a fight? Dream on.

This X is a surrender. A kiss goodbye. My white flag - I would hold it higher, but...

x : all my love, always and forever - even if you never know; especially if you never know. We never learn, do we? [Learn...]



Bright Eyes

No Lies, Just Love

When I am reborn I will be pure, like snow... like gold! When I am reborn I will decide my own future, my own emotional leanings, where and when my intellect is birthed, which words I will use, I will be king of the Dictionary. I will be in love and out of love, at my choosing, I will be happy, I will be happy - God knows I've waited long enough. Dream on.

When I am reborn I will be the same; but wiser. Hardened by experience, aged by emotion, drowned in a sea of well-meant yet ill-devised intentions. The critics they will call me naive; they will do as they do; they will never cease with their criticisms; they will ask, "well how can you be so sure?" And I will never answer their question. [Discover...]

I am dreaming of a summer day or a winter-sky; an oil-painting burnt to unrecognisable pieces. I am dreaming of a second chance.

house-beats

Superpitcher

Dntel - (This Is) The Dream of Evan and Chan (Superpitcher Kompakt Remix)

Four thirty-seven AM. The party should've ended a long time ago. In truth, it has ended already. It's just the stragglers now. The hardcore drinkers. The clinger-on's who know that when they wake in the morning, it's a sore-head, and a day-job they despise that they're waking up to. You try to keep the party alive. The last light-bulb went out - filament snapped - just like your enthusiasm. Still you sway, drinking and smoking, lolling your head from side to side, trying to get a drunken glimpse of that beautiful girl across the room...

Why's she still here?
Why hasn't she left yet?
Does she love me?
Well, does she?
Perfect real-love?
Or faux-love?

And that girl you were with earlier...

...where is she now?
Did she really rest her head against your neck?

And...

...is this what love feels like? The pulsating beat of a hang-over strolling towards you? A thousand questions and few answers? Nervous melancholy; insistent sadness; the end of a party; a miserable farewell; a downpour of rain as you stand watching the skyline; a sinking boat? A bundle of descriptions - gift-wrapped - that - like that new dress you bought (one of) your dearly beloved - don't quite fit? [pause] Sober up, kid. You've got a long day ahead of you. [Discover / Art]

sound-tracks

Two years ago, I watched one of my best friends smash a pint glass over his forehead, by accident. It remains one of my favourite memories. One day later and he was still alive, uninjured, unhurt, ready for another drinking session: but there would be no White Lightning this time. Nah, this called for pizza, and vodka. A lovely combination. Then the vodka ran out. What did we do? We drank snake wine: that is, alcohol which has been flavoured by having a real-life (but thankfully, dead) snake in the bottle. Needless to say, I was violently sick. So was my brother. That didn't matter: we still ate lots of pizza and sang along to Hot Hot Heat's fantastic Make Up The Breakdown.

One day later, it was Euro 2004, it was the final, lots of friends and myself and my brother, all drinking, all watching TV... We never saw the second half. Left the house and went to the bar. It's all still very blurred to be honest. I remember shouting along to these songs with everyone else; I remember going and nearly getting our heads kicked in for our religion; I remember my brother getting called a skater and throwing a pint glass at the ground near to where the guys were standing. I remember Jack getting on his moped which we'd promised we wouldn't let him do. I remember him coming back and shouting, "you's bastards! that was a test! and ye's fucking failed!"

I also remember Philson standing on my glasses the next morning; me labouring over them until they were fixed. Walking down to the bakery and feeling like we were about to die; laughing at Niall as he went to his gardening job. Going into town to meet Lauren; our heads still very much up in the clouds - walking into the wall, getting a milkshake, trying to stay upright.

---



Hot Hot Heat

Get In or Get Out
Bandages

It was a crazy weekend, and Hot Hot Heat provided the soundtrack to it. The whole weekend is as vivid now as it's always been; it was brilliant, stupid, silly, drunk fun. Make Up The Breakdown will always hold a special place in my heart for that reason: because I remember going on the internet and finding the lyrics so that we could sing along. The World Cup starts tomorrow - so it may well be another crazy summer - and therefore, Hot Hot Heat are the perfect band to be listening to. After this summer I hope to be going to Uni, but I'll still love my friends and my memories, and let's face it, I'll always love Derry: "ugly or pretty, it's still my city".

erase you : ignore you

Sara Culler

At Least Like Melissa

Maybe...

I picked out a page, as blank as I could find. Found a couple more. An old textbook served me well for paper. The blank pages at the end. Over 100 novels resting on my bookshelf all with three or four blank pages near the end, near the front. Stories I'd read already, sometimes twice. I turned off the lights, closed the curtains, flicked a match off a matchbook, heard the clllick, saw the spark, lit a candle. Dragged a reluctant pen from its case and began to write. Wrote my whole life story, got it all down on paper in fourteen hours - couldn't sleep that night.

I blew the candle out; forwarded the makeshift book to a publisher. It wasn't marketable, it wasn't intriguing enough. Their editors said my life story was just the same as everyone elses - "But look at the grace and honesty with which its written!" I protested - it doesn't matter, they said, none of this does: who's your target audience? What type of genre are you going for? They took my story, and years later they cut it up into millions of little pieces. Tore me straight from the page - lifted my beating heart and found one that beat faster - replaced me with someone more beautiful. Changed the setting to somewhere more exotic - we were thinking of Thailand, Hawaii, Tokyo, Rome.

They took all those pages that I poured my soul into and they turned my memoirs into a novel full of high-octane thrills. The press loved it. The readers loved it. They loved the truth of it all. They loved the intrigue, the mystery. They loved the way it seemed so real, so genuine. Now I'm a wounded, stray dog, who's laugh is a nicotine coated bark.

I'm whispering, so my words can't be heard and taken apart and replaced. I'm a beating heart, I'm a bruised body, I am real, and I "spit out my smile" for all to see. Back then, I decided that my art from that point on was my life. In life I would be a readable book - but first you'd have to meet me, stare me down, watch me "shiver down the left" and "bleed down the right".

When my life story was drifting towards its conclusion, I didn't know how the last page should be read... I picked out my favourite book from that shelf - fittingly, it was a memoir - and cut out its last page, and then left it blank. No one knows what ever happened. But the critics and the readers alike, they tore the meaning apart, said I was too beaten down to carry on, got myself into such a mess I couldn't continue, so sad I couldn't get out of bed. My father died when I was only twelve, so the story goes, and I'd been hiding the sadness until I finally couldn't bear it and broke down. The ones who knew me, they whispered to each other, words coming out as breaths so as no one could hear, "I think he escaped".

---

This song took me by surprise. The instrumentation sparing and quiet, allowing way for the voice to float in with venom disguised as a platitude; a whisper in your lover's ear. Escape and freedom resonate from the ending chapter of the song where words are ditched in favour of ad-libbed vocals cascading along tributaries. It's the voice of a fallen Angel; still angelic and beautiful, but further from Heaven than any of us could ever know. And at the end of the song, as a deep breath is taken and then coughed back out, you accept your sadness. Because it's your sadness; no one elses. You embrace it with open arms; you look at yourself in the mirror and see it staring back at you - your one, true, reliable friend.