Friday, 25 November 2011

It's past midnight ...

And I don't want to sleep. So I'm going to write this until about five in the morning. And I'm going to listen to Brian Eno's Apollo. And I'm going to write about music, for starters. Why not? There's no harm in it. (What a boring world it would be if we had to discuss finance the whole time. Even my angel likes to write about other stuff every now and then. I think she wrote, er, something about burning her bra recently - ? I, I don't know. Something like that. Each to their own, I suppose. These feminists, eh? I think they take it too far.) By the way, I'll be listening to David Sylvian's Gone to Earth later. Good honest night-time music. I can hear a space cow! Cows in space! (He's quite a character, that Eno.) I still need a bridge for my new piece of music. It's causing me a lot of grief. The melody in the chorus is brilliant though (even if I do say so myself). It's probably the best melody I've ever composed. Better than the melody to Sunset Nausea - if you can believe that. Of course, you haven't heard that particular song. I wrote it in 1989. Imagine Jean-Paul Sartre in a pop band. (Actually, don't.) [I won't be breaking this up into paragraphs. Can't be bothered.] Apollo brings back so many memories. I've been listening to it since I was seventeen. I'm not going to write about those memories. Far too personal. (I remember one cold night. Winter of 1987. I won't say [write] any more.) You've got to get this album! You may have heard quite a bit of it already. It's been used in hundreds of TV programmes. Not to mention Trainspotting. (When Ewan McGregor goes down the toilet. Through the shit to beautiful clean water.) As for Sylvian (coming later), as we know, Sylvian can be a pain in the arse with all his moaning, but ... I've written about this before, Eno and Sylvian, another all-nighter last year, never mind. In a blog this size, you're going to repeat your ... though smaller now, obviously, I've cut thirty thousand or so words. The British Library will still have them. I'm not bothered. The scholars will lap it up in the year 2525, if Man is still alive. / I wish I lived somewhere you could go out late at night, a-roving, without being molested or stabbed or whatever the kids are into these days. I used to lay in fields staring at the stars, like that scene in Fandango on the Giant movie set. Well, I'll tell you, I'm getting out of this fucking town once I've made my money. Off to Cornwall! (I might pop back occasionally to see how the rat-racers are doing.) It won't take long, the big money. I've got a good feeling about next year, oh yes, what with me knocking the (potential) hits out now like Burt Bacharach on speed. I know it's silly, the pop monkey business, but I like it, I ... / What else am I going to do? Earn a dull dull living, living like the dead, the dead? No thank you. I've got the T-shirt. (I feel so alive! That's my problem. Excess spirit! Up high, an aeronaut of ... come, make me smile.) / Starting to struggle. My eyes, so heavy. / I can't believe I've turned my laptop into a recording studio with free software. That would have been unimaginable twenty years ago. / It's going to be random thoughts until ... my eyes, close. / There's so much mess. I add to it, and I take it away. / Chaos, confusion. / I can barely type at this hour. I won't be editing this, just ch / ch / changes as I go. I mean, I've been going, and Sylvian has nearly finished, I need ... Chopin? No! Eno - again? No! Charlie Parker? Maybe. Davis? I've got ten or more Miles Davis albums, but none on my laptop. I could watch the last ten magical minutes of Fandango - or will I just get all melancholic, watching that? I'm willing to risk it. I am! Then I'll get back to the music. It's got to be Charlie Parker with Strings - ! Christ! I feel like I'm in New York in the Fifties, in some smoky dive. That's the power of music, that is! / I've made the right decision. / I used to have a saxophone, and I played it - badly. I wasn't committed though. The saxophone's too much like hard work. Ended up selling it to some brat, bastard. £220! It cost me £500! / Is it bedtime yet? / I had a £300 acoustic guitar as well. Years ago. Sold that for just over a hundred. Now I have a cheap Argos one. Strangely enough, I prefer it. Strange, eh? / Oh, I'm going to bed. Well, I'm already on the bed, but I've decided to get inside and turn out the light. I'm heading for dreamworld! (And a shaman's dreamworld is something to see, believe me.) Wish me luck. / Laters.