Friday, 9 December 2011

Car Trouble


Looking back over the sea of fog I can now report that my Mr. Solo odyssey was an attempt to live life as cheese dream. To go hither and thither wherest it may lead me. Lately I've been in search of a good sleep. I think this began when the ultimate cheese dream manifested after a Mr. Solo rehearsal. Now I can see how this may have been to do with my karmic directors being at odds with the flow of the universe. This resulted in a transit van carrying two tons of gold hitting me head on. I thank G(g)od (the universe) that I was alone but still feel that terrifying fear of being buried alive that I felt at the time from time to time. It's wearing off a little and I find I can once more see the magical side of sitting at a set of traffic lights in a neck brace trying not to rubber neck the doubloons on the road. 
And so it was that I took a train journey to Royal Tunbridge Wells in search of a certain fermented dairy product style somnambulistic experience. It was a time to read my doorstop size Jerry Cornelius omnibus. I knew that synchronicity was returning to my orbit when after having composed a response to the question of "what is the condition of music?" posed in the Guardian notes and queries I opened said tome to see that the fourth book was indeed called "The Condition of Muzak". This was going to be good I mused. Earlier that day I had learnt that the medical term for obsession with random coincidence was apophonia so to be experiencing it now felt especially synchronistic. As luck would have it my wife had returned home early from work so I was able to get there in time for the support act. I heard the first as I headed for the deserted downstairs bar - a nod to shouty late 80's cyber punk. Rapidly I became aware that this venue was ordinarily the domain of pantomime and touring family style theatre. It was all very cosy and peeps all had their best coats on. Ladies had nice hair and men had nice slacks. All very civilised. And so we took our places (ours were four rows back from the nose bleed PA hastily installed for monsieur ant I presume). The feel of the anticipation seriously reminded me of going to Billy Smarts circus as a child. A specifically English provincial excitement wafted fragrantly about us all. The lady came to the front of the stage. A lovely girl – part athlete part burlesque part red coat except without the coat and without the blouse and skirt. The snake above her head was blanched looking – had she par boiled it to ensure docility? The music was CIA noise level bass throb beneath pastiche 50s and 80s family pop. I am sure that Michael Moorcock concocted this in his last cheese dream. I felt sorry for the static snake who ended the first song inside the mouth of the entertaining lady. I made my excuses to my friends and headed for the chilly night air. I let my hysterics envelop me – I wanted to share with anyone passing just how bizarre the whole thing had been. When someone is trying that hard to entertain an auditorium of static winter coat wearers still murmuring about the days travails one can easily have a moment of existential crisis. I am learning that such morbid thoughts can be extinguished with ease and returned to my seat well in time for the prince/king himself.

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