There was rarely a moment of silence in our house when I was little. Very specific albums remind me of very specific times. Stepping Out on a Sunday night, Astral Weeks on a Saturday afternoon, Darkness On The Edge Of Town on a Friday night, up loud just before the bottle of Gin emerged. My dad eventually gave me his entire LP collection because he doesn’t have a record player set up anymore.
The night before I left my little English town to get on a plane and travel the world for months on end I was laying on my bed surrounded by all the things I was taking with me but still hadn’t had the will to pack. I had my face in buried in a salt stained pillow and my eyes were all puffy from the tears. My Dad came into my room in his stripey bathrobe and asked if I was OK. I couldn’t realky speak. I had reached the point where life had nigh-on scared the living daylights out of me and I just wanted to escape. He went over to his LPs, took one out of its sleeve so very masterfully and put it onto the turntable. I heard the crackle over the extra large speakers I had recently spent weeks installing in my shelving unit, he came back over to where I was, laid on the bed beside me and said, “Shhh, just listen.” I buried my face into the toweling robe, smelled the smell that always makes me feel safe and we listened to the seven mintutes or so of Smoke On The Water live by Deep Purple. And when it was over he just said, “it’ll be alright, Sof.”
If I have kids I hope they can never afford to buy me a present for my birthday or whatever because they’ve spent everything they have on music. I hope they piss the neighbours off playing music too loud. I hope they want to play every instrument under the sun, even the most annoying ones.
I want to hear them singing their favourite songs as they dart between the trees in autumn, as burnt amber, browning leaves fall onto their heads. I want them to know what it’s like to hear something and it change everything.
The other night we had one of those nights like we always used to. Up until there’s no more whiskey left talking about music until our mouths are dry. The small glasses were crammed full of ice chips and blended scotch, which Dad said was a travesty really and a single malt would have been better.
We’d pushed open the dark blue door to our house at just gone 12. My fingers were slightly stained for the bottle of red wine we’d had with dinner. Eating at the pub always makes me feel like everything will be ok, which is silly really.
When we get back from the pub like that and there’s people around we don’t watch the most recent American drama series that we’re trying desperately to catch up with. Instead my Dad will pile up an armful of heavy-bottomed short glasses onto a tray and head straight upstairs to the heaving tower of CDs in the corner.
He paws at them for ages, usually, pulling one after another, not able to decide on where he wants to take everything. Piling them up on the arm of the sofa until they spill all over the cushions.
At the pub he’d been talking about the Velvet Underground. Laughing with his friend about how the Beatles had supposed to be so cutting edge, all the while Underground were giving the world White Light/White Heat. “Ohh The Gift, you’ve heard The Gift, right?”
A while before he’d gone a bit nuts about the song. He’d been talking about it for days. Out of his mind, almost, with the fact I hadn’t heard it. So he went and bought it and sat me down and made me listen to all eight minutes, 16 seconds of it. John Cale in one speaker and all the music in the other. His soft, lilting Welsh accent flitting about the room.
This night had started just the same.
And then it bleeds into Zeppelin, Neil Young, Van Morrison, Darkness On The Edge Of Town, Miles Davies, Ornette Coleman, Ella Fitzgerald, The Four Tops and later Animal Collective when I eventually get my way.
The Gift
By The Velvet Underground
“Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which meant that he had been separated from Marsha for more than two months. Two months, and all he had to show was three dog-eared letters and two very expensive long distance phone calls. When school had ended and she’d returned to Wisconsin, and he to Locust, Pennsylvania. She had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity, she would date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would remain faithful.
But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at night and when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at night, tossing and turning underneath his pleated quilt protector, tears welling in his eyes. As he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of some neanderthal, finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was more than the human mind could bear. Visions of Marsha’s faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was they wouldn’t really understand how she really was. He, Waldo, alone, understood this. He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny of her psyche. He had made her smile, and she needed him, and he wasn’t there. (awwwhh….)
The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers’ Parade was scheduled to appear. He had just finished mowing and etching the Edelsons lawn for a dollar fifty and had checked the mailbox to see if there was at least a word from Marsha. There was nothing more than a circular from the Amalgamated Aluminum Company of America inquiring into his zoning needs. At least they cared enough to write. It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mail.
Then it struck him, he didn’t have enough money to go to Wisconsin in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail himself? It was absurdly simple. He would ship himself parcel post special delivery. The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and a medium cardboard sized box, just right for a person of his build. He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite comfortably. A few airholes, some water, of course, midnight snacks and it would probably be as good as going tourist.
By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was packed and the post office had agreed to pick him up at three o’clock. He’d marked the package “Fragile”, and as he sat curled up inside, resting the foam rubber cushioning he’d thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the look of awe and happiness on Marshas face as she opened the door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then opened it to see her Waldo finally there in person. She would kiss him, then, maybe they could see a movie. If he’d only thought of this before. Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne up. He landed with a thud in a truck and then he was off.
Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very rough weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had been nice about it though. After it was over he’d said that he still respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way of nature, and even though, no he didn’t love her, he did feel an affection for her. And, after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what Billy could teach Waldo - but that seemed like years ago.
Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend walked in through the porch screen door and into the kitchen.
“Oh god, it’s absolutely maudlin outside.”
“I know what you mean, I feel all icky!” Marsha tightened her cotton robe with the silk outer edge. Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on the kitchen table, licked her fingers and made a face.
“I’m supposed to take these salt pills,” but she wrinkled her nose, “They make me feel like throwing up.” Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she’d seen on television. “God, don’t even talk about that.” She got up from the table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and blue vitamins. “Want one? Supposed to be better than steak.” And attempted to touch her knees.
“I don’t think I’ll ever touch a daiquiri again.” She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the small table that supported the telephone. “Maybe Bill will call.” she said to Sheila’s glance. Sheila nibbled on a cuticle.
“After last night, I thought maybe you’d be through with him.”
“I know what you mean, my God, he was like an octopus. Hands all over the place.” She gestured, raising her arms upwards in defense. “The thing is after a while, you get tired of fighting with him, you know, and after all he didn’t really do anything Friday and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him, you know what I mean.” She started to scratch.
Sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth. “I’ll tell you, I feel the same way, and even after a while,” here she bend forward in a whisper, “I wanted to,” and now she was laughing very loudly.
It was at this point that Mr. Jameison of the Clarence Darrow Post Office rang the door bell of the large colored stucco frame house. When Marsha Bronson opened the door, he helped her carry the package in. He had his yellow and green slips of paper signed and left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had gotten out of her mothers small beige pocketbook in the den.
“What do you think it is?” Sheila asked.
Marsha stood with her arms folded behind her back. She stared at the brown cardboard carton that sat in the middle of the living room: “I don’t know.”
Inside the package Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking tape that ran down the center of the carton. “Why don’t you look at the return address and see who it is from?”
Waldo felt his heart beating. He could feel the vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.
Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label. “God, it’s from Waldo.”
“That schmuck!” said Sheila.
Waldo trembled with expectation.
“You might as well open it,” said Sheila. Both of them tried to flip the stable flap.
“Ah,” said Marsha groaning. “He must have nailed it shut.” They tugged at the flap again. “My God, you need a power drill to get this thing opened.” They pulled again. “You can’t get a grip!” They both stood still, breathing heavily. “Why don’t you get the scissors,” said Sheila. Marsha ran into the kitchen, but all she could find was a little sewing scissors. Then she remembered that her father kept a collection of tools in the basement. She ran downstairs and when she came back, she had a large sheet metal cutter in her hand. “This is the best I could find.” She was out of breath. “Here, you do it. I’m gonna die.” She sank into a large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily. Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end of the cardboard, but the blade was too big and there was not enough room. “God damn this thing!” she said feeling very exasperated. Then, smiling “I got an idea.” “What?” said Marsha. “Just watch,” said Sheila touching her finger to her head.
Inside the package, Waldo was transfixed with excitement that he could hardly breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat and he could feel his heart beating in his throat. It would be soon.
Sheila stood quite upright and walked around to the other side of the package. Then she sank down to her knees, grasped the cutter by both hands, took a deep breath and plunged the long blade through the middle of the package, through the masking tape, through the card-board through the cushioning and right through the center of Waldo Jeffers’ head, which split slightly and caused little rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning sun.”
And that is that.
I am just watching Watchmen, again. And the thing that always, always strikes me about this film is the little pockets of perfection that are created by the right song being dropped into the exact right second. They makes you want to melt into the ground like Alex Mack.
I am so very glad that music means this much to me.
