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