The Time Being | Steve Kilbey

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black velvet inside a silver guitar case
black label whisky
black clothes
grey eyes
on planes
off planes
signing a big big deal
smile off camera
the rip chord
a stab in the darkness
the boys with their quiffs n sideburns
the girl with the tattoo on her ass
the powder comes toppling out of the envelope
the money changes hands
the call is made
the drums feed back
the monitors are overpowering
i feel sick
the pressure builds up
i caress my fucking instrument blindly
in the wings
in the pit
in the shadows
the intro tape goes on
the hotel keys fall out of someones pocket
smoke and mirrors
little showbiz routines
the crash/ride the 4/4 the thud thud thud
unbelievably loud
like machinery shrieking
like an earthshaker
like a skyskraper
wobbling down the isle at 2 am
falling asleep wide awake in your seat
the internet falters
the memories of magnetic heaven
the bass strings me along a while
i travel down the lines
i sing between the phases
i search my head for the words
i fall hoarsely
i get shocked by the charge
i snort contempt
i sweat buckets of ink
there must be a lotta people out there
but the cymbals have blinded me
the blood congeals in the dead songs
we wade through a lake of backing vox
all retuned and chopped about
edit snap edit snap
i delete information ruthlessly
the tiny crystals burn my stars
fuck i’d love to….
alignment in unspeakable delight
sweet saltiness
strumming down hard on you
on you hollow body
on you shapely neck
run my hands up your white notes
tighten up your octaves
flute your tiny piccolo
sing in tongues baby
the machine will remember your moves
the amp needs more grunt
the distortion is leaking beyond the music
the thunder us down of the big bass drum
the wretched screech of the fiddle
the grind down of the organ
i cant agree with anything
we argue over the set
the lights come up
the curtains have left the building
the rats gnaw on
the wires short out
the power arcs up
kaboom
crash
wallop
bang!
i lie there in the dreamless black
black keys
black shoes
black horizon
is that enough ? someone asks
yeah…i say
thats enough

once upon a time recording something was hard work
when frank sinatra recorded only the lonely
that stuff is all one take
no overdubbing
all down/done in one go
wow
all that stuff
those little trills n fills
all in one go
sometime later
someone invented overdubbing
wow

i decided sometime in 1969
that i wanted to play the bass guitar
something just gave me a great big hunch
that thats what i was supposed to do
its like a feeling
its like a calling
its like discovering something that makes you very excited
a bunch of kids fantasized about getting a band together
we planned our record covers n everything
in 1970 i nagged my dad into buying me a bass guitar
it cost 80 dollars and it was a violin shaped
my dad made an amp for me out of an old p.a. system he’d come across
playing a bass was nothing like i thought
it was hard yakka
i tried to figure out bass parts in other peoples songs
little green bag by the george baker selection
yeah thats my first riff right there
i played it in A
which meant i only had to use one finger
this lesson of the easy one finger lick was not lost on me
after that i figured out 25 or 6 to 4 by chicago
over and over n over until the “oldies” begged me to stop
some rellies came over and requested a performance
on stevens new electric guitar
i got my bass out n played them my grab bag of licks
by now i’d added yellow river by christie
and some led zepp stuff
my rellies were completely underwhelmed
my uncle bought me a jose feliciano record
and said
thats how a guitar should sound!
i pressed on regardless
i jammed with other novice guitarists n drummers
and we kinda figured it out together
we played rock round the clock for hours
i hated it!
but i wanted to learn
one afternoon
a very cool guy called ben
with red hair came over
and in 1 hour flat
he showed me scales, slides, slurs and bends
and the inside scoop on how paul mccartney played
applying this knowledge
i found myself improved by leaps and bounds
i began to sing and play bass
because no other fool would sing my silly words
playing n singing at the same time is hard at first
how do you do it?
practice
time
detachment
now it seems as easy as rolling off a log
i listened hard to the bass guitarists i liked
chris squire from yes blew my tiny mind
he had a new sound
a trebly tremeloey thing
that elevated bass guitar right outta the accepted ballpark
and implied so many possibilities
of what could indeed be done
strangely enough
soon i discovered i had my own style
it was a lazy easy style
it wasnt all uptight and pushy
it wasnt very technically brilliant
but it was my way of doing it
and i liked it
after about a year or 2
i became very comfortable playing the bass
i could never achieve that degree of comfort with a guitar
the bass and i feel joined
i feel at home
i feel like ive kicked my shoes off and i’m safe
anyway
its a lovely instrument
and my current bass is a real rolls royce
even and true
a real luxury to play
rich and deep and resonant
it says things that other basses cant say
it throws up music other basses could not hear
it has become charged with much mojo over the years
and it sometimes discharges blasts of its reserved power
right up my arm and into my brain
this only happens when the church is rocking hard
of course
but i go into an anaesthetized state
cant feel the weight of it
cant feel gravity at all
my fingers still nimble luckily
they pluck n pluck like fat little hummingbirds
faster than the I can see
and after a long time
you achieve symbiosis with your axe, man
you got a thing going with it
an understanding
it wants to resonate
it wants to deliver
its thirsty for music
it wants to seek the heat n fury of rock
so you strap it on
and you go out there
into the beckoning limelight
you blink under the lights
the crowd check you out
you gotta prove yourself
but you got the rollsroyce bass on your side
like the rifleman had his rifle
you got your fender jazz
and you wait to hear the click of the drumsticks
that counts in the first song
click click click click
youre off and running
you stand back and it all happens
the fingers fly to their positions
they automatically run around the bass
the words come rushing out your mouth
in a solid stream
and me
whoever i am
i just stand back
and i gently guide the
fingers and voice
adding n subtracting bits
trying new innovations
sometimes fucking up n having to correct it
breathing
moving
thinking
relaying
reacting to the others
none of them see it like me
none of them see it like each other
music has a million ins
and all of us got our own in
if you got no in you might as well give up
i cant explain my in to you
i stumbled on it and its non transferrable
i believe if you stumble around long enough
youll find your in
i believe musical ability in the family is a big plus
music seems to run in families
peters dad is a musician
my dad n his mum played the piano
martys brother plays the guitar in cabaret bands
tims son plays guitar in a street light song
craigie our keyboard players mum was a piano teacher
it seems to be in the genes
but its also in the fact
that if you see someone you know doing it
you realize it cant be that damn hard
anyway i was born n destined
to play the bass guitar
the only instrument i am truly proficient on
i try to make my bass parts
interesting
sexy
warm
pulsating
snaky
throbbing
simple
melodic
different

thank you for listening
sk

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screening unseen excepts from the t.t.b. vaults
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ttb management and staff

from the moment that wriggling sperm
hits that deep ovum
and somehow you manifest
and you get a name
and you get a number
and you get a mummy n dad
and you get a school
and a dog
and a friend
and some more friends
and a girl
and a car
and a bass guitar
and you get some words
throw it together in a song
and you sing your song
and you get a fan
and you get a audients
and you get a big cheque
and you get nice car
and you get a holiday
and you get a hit
and you get a miss
and you get another miss
and you get a habit
and you get a bad reputation
and you get bad teeth
and you get arrested
and you get clean
and you get better
and then get going again
and then you get another habit
you get more bad reviews
you get dropped
you get left
you get dumped
you get ignored
you get in debt
you get used to losing stuff
you get on a losing streak
you get forgotten
you get dismayed
you get depressed
you get way behind
you get angry and angrier
you get bitter
you get careless
you get fucked over and over
you get down
you get stoned
you get drunk
you get problems
you get sick
you get remorseful
you get lost
you get it all mixed up
you get a no
you get a negative
you get a short straw n a long face
you get yourself into more hot water
you get a new place
you get a new wife
you get some new kids
you get a chance
you get a blog
you get some readers
you get some comments
you get some exercise
you get some yoga
you get some blah blah blah
riding you a letter
i shoulda known better
my autoblography

spring arrives in shivers n blusters
here on the island in the sea
this isle is full of noises
the screeching of small things in the canopy
the parrots chatter all the lazy day
the river winding away
i am becalmed in my head
i have run aground on some stupid reef
i stare out to sea for a ship that can never arrive
the white englishman against the blue sky
the black crab against the rock
the yellow sand against the deep sea
i can neither sleep nor stay awake
all my body seems to gently ache
and my dreams torment me with hopeless struggles
i shoot into the blackness
i fight off the pillows in the night
the afternoons try to secede greedily
the afternoons which refuse to end
leaving me weakened and exhausted
my brittle nerves all dangled n jangling
and apprehending everything into saturation
i do feeble deals with myself….
if only this
or
if only that
i mutter to myself
and i envy distant people in faraway times
and i daydream about a solid darkness
that warmly enfolds me
and banishes the hounds that dog me doggedly
my shoulders sag under the weight of my heavy dead head
so full of lonely thoughts and confused tourists
so empty now of joy or peace
anger wells up in a dry compassionless desert
everything i see or hear stings my dry cold skin
i must be finally turning into a snake
i lie in the sun
and it only makes me dizzy
so i stagger into the briny ocean
which shocks me senseless
the weather suddenly changes again
the clouds race across the sky
a warm wind starts to breathe
respiring relentless gusts of sand and grit
i blink and cannot think
my voice is cracked and discoloured
my songs have faded
my words are uneven and melting
i wait for some wonderful pleasure
i wait for some miraculous evening
i wait for some heaven to swing low n pick me up
i wait for krishna to come n take me for a stroll
i wait for jesus to put his holy hand on my bony shoulder
i stand at the cross and angry roads
my sign says : will work for hedonism….
no one stops
no one travels these unbeaten paths
where the asphalt beach meats the neon jungle
where the rich italian guys drive up in their immaculate jaguars
where lone sharks aimlessly drift
and the warm but heatless wind sings in the window
near the room for rent cafe block with the empty fashion tat
and i feel myself slipping
not into dream
not into consciousness
not into blackness
but some nauseous universe all warped and sliding
every point unfixed
no certainty no attachment
may be you are mad i say to myself
but then i’d be talking to myself i hear myself say back
imagine i can read peoples minds
but my own has been locked up
and all my stuff chucked out
and exploded all over every universe
there is no where to hide
no where to go
still i await pleasure
even as the ship goes down down down
down to the bed with a shining glass sound
the palms sway in the damn wind
the fingers dance against the keyboard
type type type
type type type
type type
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