mince trill
the mechanistic universe eludes me
i see magic in all good things
i superstitiously give names to objects
i look at the ants and see different personalities within them
i look at rubble and i understand its inherent beauty
a crack in a pavement with a tiny green weed fascinates me
the names that i catch of children you were in love with at school
i believe my god has fixed the planets in their courses
look at that all going exactly to plan
i follow whims
i indulge hunches
i remember tomorrow
then i try to forget tomorrow
i pledge my whole life to music
music that strange flimsy powerful spell
by manipulation of vibrating frequencies
by the arc of a well placed string of words
by the insinuation of an indefinable attitude
by romance by anger by insistence
i stride on a stage somewhere in europe or america
oh look at me in my shiny black shirt with the little black velvet flowers
oh how do i remember all those words all tumbling out in constant streams
some people out there seem to really love the music you making
where am i though?
who am i and why am i doing this and what does all this ritual mean?
i march on stage i pick up my bass and i aim the sound at the audience hoping to slay them
i stupidly think that my electric bass guitar is in cahoots with me
and that it stores and discharges energy
and that it helps me to play itself when its in a good mood
and i think about the sound of my voice floating round the room
and i think about the first day i went to high school
and i thinking about my father and hoping one day to run into him again
and i thinking bout scarlet kilbey and hoping she is happy there at home
and i thinking about hawkwind and big star and sigur ros
and i thinking about mickey finn and greg lake
and i thinking about tony banks and nico at her harmonium
and im thinking bout peter cook as drimble wedge
and i thinking of how fucking cool elektra and miranda come across
and im thinking about the tiny weed in the crack again
and im thinking about that girl i knew in lyonesse
and im thinking of south america and all its magic realism
and im thinking of north america and its great industrial cities
and i’m thinking about how my fingers just know what to do
so my fingers and the bass are taking care of things i guess
some energy flows in from somewhere
where does it come from nobody knows
the performer perhaps feeds off the people
and they willingly give and all are consumed in the white hot passion of the rock spectacle
the performer and the crowd sated and satiated and satisfied
the sheer ear splitting volume
the incredible technological sound effects available
the interweaving sounds of a five man ensemble
creating and implying sounds no one can even understand
poignance is invited
significance is summoned
unsayable things are somehow being said
expressing inexplicable emotion
overcoming all resistance some people the devoted ones hearts will melt
all that equipment
all those years
all that practice and trial and error
all the other shows there ever was and everything you learned
while the songs go flying past
new songs old songs bought song sold songs
any old song will do
we transmute them as lovely arrows and we shoot through you
and i am thinking of a hazy italian summer sky here
and i am thinking of my mother one day at a picnic
and i thinking about a gang of boys riding their bikes through the bush
and i thing about some real fucking rock stars i met
and how some were so cool and some were real fool
and i thinking about a million bills i have to pay
and i thinking about the aztecs and the inca and the mayans and the tupi
and i thinking about sweet hot lemuria were i was once wizard
and i thinking about all the mistakes i made
all those fuckin’ bitter regrets
but then i’m the guy who feels everything everywhere in some muted dimness
my bass is sad too having been chopped down and cut up
nevertheless some vague spirit now permeates the instrument
something with a desire of its own
sometimes it switches off
it is nothing just a lump round my neck and shoulders
othertimes with a crowd being oh so zealous
the instrument responds and sucking in all that mana
it literally sings and it croons its own subtextual tunes
the bass and i recharge each other in a perpetual cycle
the pounding drums the screaming guitars the throbbing bass
the keys accentuate and give new perspectives
the ritual has its forms and its own rituals within rituals
its a game its a performance but its also something different
something you could never explain to someone who did not love rock n roll music
its a refinement an acquired taste
but i’m thinking of the pacific ocean and its delicious water in the southern winter morning
