whiskeyfightpit

Sometimes I have to live in fiction just to get through the day. The horrors and other unpleasant realities can get a simple buffing with just a little imagination. While the filth-covered garbage machines are pillaging through my particular pawn shop, I have to take my mind to a different land. This place is totally crunkular. Singularly crunkular I say. Ahh, where the waistline is trimmed and the muscles are fit but not in a Mr. Universe ridiculousness. The suit is black with dark red trim not unlike a Bad Seed, pall-bearer stitch. My voice is golden and lush like Scott Walker in a mountain of Phil Spectorian reverb. Hailing the lonely boys and girls with my well-written sad song, I calmly stalk the French music hall stage with the determination of a Jacques Brel wrapped in a touch of Lou Reed Live. The audience is slightly detatched but always attentive. Coolness, intelligence, and beauty can do that to a person. Especially in Europe. The Final Countdown?? I think not. The guitarist is similarly decked out in a Blixa Bargeld monkey suit. His fingers flailing about on a vintage and decaying Fender Jaguar. This ancient twang factory has seen better days. Like an outdated pirate ship in strange and new wars. Delay and tremolo lock the sad notes and send the siren tones through the speakers giving the worthy a taste of the deceased Joe Meek hailing the harpoon slice of a Keith Levene. Poptones. Oh, but of course. The lights are simple and effective in this place. Like the illumination of an elementary school gymnasium before the student body performs Christmas routines. No delusions of grandeur with distracting Pink Floyd light shows. These hip priests are a little too savvy for pyrotechnics. The real black powder standoff is in those lyrics. Those forboding tales of human misery, old and new. Love lost, Love Never-had, Lovelessness. Running the gamut. We all, unfortunately, know that drill. Oh, but that VOICE. Fighting its gorgeous way through the ever-present human condition. For a brief hour and thirty minutes, the war is over. The fields of our little accumulation station need not be tended while these compositions are being delivered. Fiction can tell the truth. Fiction can make it all better. Very temporary. Very necessary. Very Salt N' Peppa, child.

SOUNDTRACK OF THE DAY
Scott Walker "Boy Child"
Nick Cave "Lament"
The Smiths "Handsome Devil"



montague terrace, baby.