But I Am Still Thirsty: Track 1
Josh hasn’t been to a gig in years. Not since he worked out what his ears could do. This is unbelievably depressing for a real music fan like Josh. Sometimes, in his darker moments, he puts Joy Division in his headphones, brutalist Salford high-rises crashing into an enormous grey sky, or perhaps Chet Baker if he fancies that certain Californian brand of melancholy, waves rearing towards the beach in the dark, suntans no protection from the cold. At these times Josh broods on whether this is happening to him because he loves music.
If only he'd been one of those doofuses who stomps enthusiastically on the floor of suburban nightclubs during the breakdown section of the 'Grease Megamix', or leaps flailingly into the air during the quiet part of 'Blister In The Sun', yelling "Lemme go ohhhhhnn..." One of those people who elbows imaginary midgets viciously in the head while lifting a bourbon-anguished face to the sky and howling, "Noooooo time for looooosers cos weeeee are the champ-yons..." One of those people who doesn't really care about music.
Now he closes his eyes and thinks about the way Claudette would sing all the songs while they watched Video Hits with the sound down.
"They tried to make me go to rehab, but I said, 'No, no, no'..." Claudette waggled her finger and added gravel to her voice.
"Does she really sound like that?"
"I'm aiming for sassy. She sounds sassy. Old-school. I read an interview with her once where she said she didn't listen to any music made after the '60s."
"Spin magazine," Josh said absently. "I read that one too."
He doesn't listen to new music either. But over the last few months he's toyed with giving Back To Black a spin. He's seen those pictures of Amy Winehouse, emaciated, glassy-eyed, with that horrible infection, herpes or whatever, all over her face, running around in the street in her underwear, being told her lungs are packing up, unable to quit the fags, the booze, the drugs. Maybe it'd be the kindest thing for her for Josh to listen to her record, just the once.
He also worries that the reason Amy's looking so shabby lately is because Claudette is such an excellent mimic.
If only he'd been one of those doofuses who stomps enthusiastically on the floor of suburban nightclubs during the breakdown section of the 'Grease Megamix', or leaps flailingly into the air during the quiet part of 'Blister In The Sun', yelling "Lemme go ohhhhhnn..." One of those people who elbows imaginary midgets viciously in the head while lifting a bourbon-anguished face to the sky and howling, "Noooooo time for looooosers cos weeeee are the champ-yons..." One of those people who doesn't really care about music.
Now he closes his eyes and thinks about the way Claudette would sing all the songs while they watched Video Hits with the sound down.
"They tried to make me go to rehab, but I said, 'No, no, no'..." Claudette waggled her finger and added gravel to her voice.
"Does she really sound like that?"
"I'm aiming for sassy. She sounds sassy. Old-school. I read an interview with her once where she said she didn't listen to any music made after the '60s."
"Spin magazine," Josh said absently. "I read that one too."
He doesn't listen to new music either. But over the last few months he's toyed with giving Back To Black a spin. He's seen those pictures of Amy Winehouse, emaciated, glassy-eyed, with that horrible infection, herpes or whatever, all over her face, running around in the street in her underwear, being told her lungs are packing up, unable to quit the fags, the booze, the drugs. Maybe it'd be the kindest thing for her for Josh to listen to her record, just the once.
He also worries that the reason Amy's looking so shabby lately is because Claudette is such an excellent mimic.
posted by Mel at 12:03 am
1 Comments:
I am totes enjoying this story.
Post a Comment
<< Home