Friday, 21 December 2012

During the Interrogation

To the pedestrians on Quarry Bank High Street it may have appeared as if there were TWO men driving Cosy's work van on that unexpectedly clear and beautiful mid-December Sunday morning. One guy was in the driving seat, wrestling with the gear stick, while the bloke next to him, in the front passenger seat, also appeared to be steering, but with this weird, bright orange steering wheel. Anyone who caught more than a glimpse would've noticed that the geeza was violently ramming his head into it. This thing actually resembled some sort of giant plastic Fisher-Price driving simulator, but it was not one of those, it was a large plastic bucket, and the deathly looking person holding onto it wasn't pretending to drive either. What he (or should I say I?) was actually doing was vomiting into it, profusely. To make matters worse, Cosy had wound the electric windows down, in disgust, so any poor unsuspecting Quarry Banker who happened to be walking along next to us at the traffic lights would have been subjected to some quite sickening sights and sounds. Luckily, I had done most of the puking within the first thirty seconds of the journey.

Cosy had picked me up from Roscoe's place, where I had spent the previous night in a drunken stupor. I'd been reeling from the unbearable stress of self-mastering our new EP; enduring various technical and psychological struggles, successes, disappointments, and the usual tedious repetitive listens to micro-segments of sound - all enough to send any sane person into a frenzy of drink. To top it off, Rose of Bearwood had completely lost all patience with me, so I headed off in a seriously destructive mood, loaded with booze, towards the 141 bus stop on the always menacing Hagley Road. I tried not to think about anything, but that never really works because bus journeys (especially those on a Saturday night which are destined for the Merry Hill shopping centre) are never going to be without thought provoking moments, are they? Unsurprisingly, I began asking myself some seriously evil questions, because sitting just across from me, at the front of the top of the bus, was an old woman who looked EXACTLY like Klaus Kinski. Fucking hell, I thought, IT IS KINSKI! But, alas, I was wrong. It was definitely an old lady, but why wasn't she downstairs with the rest of the old dears? Why? WHY THE FUCK NOT!!? She can sit wherever the fuck she likes. Inevitably, this got me thinking about Herzog, but not only that, it made me realise that I'm turning into Fitzcarraldo. I had a little chuckle to myself. Why am I such a determined mental case? What kind of sicko thinks he can truly combine the great minds of people like Herzog, Kinski, Thompson, Smith, Zappa, Van Vliet - it's an EGO-OVERLOAD! No sane person could ever pull off that kind of trick, could they? Well, if they did, they would be harbouring THE UNDISPUTED KING OF ALL EGOS. I had to prevent myself from laughing hysterically in front of everyone on the bus. I made matters worse by thinking about some of the great sporting egos: Muhammad Ali, Brian Clough, Eric Cantona, Jose Mourinho, Cristiano Ronaldo - and then I thought of Gareth Southgate. My mind seemed to grind to a halt. I started to doubt everything. I remembered something I'd written in my previous piece, something about "a future full of crazy auteurs" which felt like a good thing to say at the time, but not now. Not only had I lost confidence in the way I had adopted this cinematic theory into a broader sense, I had lost confidence in the sentiment behind it, for we are already over-saturated and clogged up with self-obsessed auteurs of blandness. It's sad, but the only way I see things improving now is if people start to understand that I AM THE GREATEST and THE CRAZIEST CREATIVE CUNT IN THE WORLD - so please, will the rest of you boring little parasites just SHUT THE FUCK UP!!! I'm trying to keep SHOWBIZ interesting, OK? 

Any old fucker can understand the painful, pragmatic truth of life - but you can shove that up your rotten piss holes. I'd rather die in a blaze of idealistic failure than perish with boredom. Failure is my greatest asset. Success is subjective. At least I'm not molesting kids, unlike many other 'successful' artists...   

My thoughts eventually became uncontrollable; lyrically enhanced and disturbingly mysterious - prank calls from another plane... as if some kind of automated transcription had found its way into my brain... a few lines mashed together every five minutes... I waited patiently for each delightfully faulty installment... tech errors... involuntary gems... pseudo-incorrect... appropriate... obscured...

everything's buckle on with it
that means is that uh... loveland he's been stripped down
student
dictated by fifty packages
venture
polymorphic yes i think it was a big right
this one is the difference autographs visits the bus yet
industries
bassist operation
pitching
avivacanada chambers basis partner can make it to him
unlike heat j_d_s_
piece
has
he
let me tell you
threatening chetan
graphics fifty four
ross in the group
involved in that
the palestinians
euthanasia and what what is the traditional respect
we trust
does the artist are compass thereupon with me
is like the estes the destroyed so enough in the grand it's because
i think this
then being offerings and document that i know i've been out of form a bond with
them
and help them comment
instruments a surprise on all of a teacher a pink
dolly married life judgmental of
research into the soil and no musicians
continues there will be
divisiveness lost brushfire drugs song
in obviously thing
welfare for fees but let me broaden music is the only noticing avoid
molesting requires that
dieted from
steve had experience with drug before and after school but in a big part of
the sponsor has got this action
dimes bucky delays
two sets of musician serb
is quite another to smoke so they're going
and that's where i
going thirty sixty
get together apply comorbid sex and
given the beliefs of flight
here
mom you
it's all right with him and motherboard or other veteran the lyrics for
as she was originally invited senator bob packwood about seven-month fall
schools parts
at the international bonds the view from jerry
yet equipment so about half an hour
graves undercover ownership miracle i think that i'm coming up before we will
be blowing
gonzalez
and also funded solid
and we should
and i'm not fifty cents an hour cause we talk about the book it's a good tool to
use to get the bloody
handyman
distribution
hello...

I snapped back into a form of regular consciousness just as the bus was entering the station. I felt cold all of a sudden. Where had the journey gone? Why was I coming over all sensitive and paranoid? Maybe I had gone mad? What was going on? This was neither the time or the place to be having another existential crisis, so I slapped myself on both cheeks and got off the bus. 
Roscoe was at his beloved place of work, GNC, until 8pm, but it was only around 7:20pm, so, instead of rushing straight to the epicenter of nutrition and enhancement, I decided to take my time and soak in the sights and smells of the arse-end of Merry Hell.