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Sunday December 14, 03
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05:13 AM - Rock and Roll with Zimmer frames.
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Went to see Vini Reilley's Durutti Clumn at the Manchester Academy last night, who, probably many Mos-soloists will be aware, (should any of them be reading this), did a lot of the music with Morrissey when he first began his solo career after the split up of the Smiths. It was all very laid back, Durutti's stuff being sometimes almost 'new-agey', contemplative, explorations of guitar sounds, to maybe listen to whilst you're lying surrounded by candles playing with your ducks in the bath, rather than something to jump around to, or even sway slightly, in a dark hall with 300 other people. Still, they were pretty good, although I wasn't, being in a grip of some overwhelming psychological darkness that's been troubling me a lot the last week or so and one of the reasons I've not bothered writing in here. At the moment, I'm just waiting for a friend to show up in his big flashy Merc, and then we're driving down to Birmingham to see the legendary Doors roll their electric wheelchairs onstage and perform (although I'm a bit/feelign a bit worried whether I'll be to conduct a conversation for this journey without fallig apart in the meanntime, and maybe opening the car door and jumping out in the middle of the m6 somewhere near Stoke. They're being fronted by Ian Astbury of THe Cult, who can be an interesting character, whose ongoing fervent attempts to resolve his deep-rooted identity crisis in the 80's & 90's, taking his entire band with him, from pre-'crusty' anarcho-tribal punk, to vaguely New Romantic chart fringe goth, to failed-hippy revivalists, to pretending to be Hell's Angels, and eventually into drab, would-be stadium rockers, produced some entertaining, surprisingly rather inspirational, 'shine-on-you-crazy-diamond, wonderfully pretentious behaviour, despite continually having the piss taken out of him by the music press, and other insopid dreary-minded, judgemental puritans. I can well believe that, just as Jim Morrison believed himself to be possesed by the spirit of af an Indian shaman whilst on stage, so will our Ian believe himself to be possessed of the spirit of Jim Morrison to the point of forgetting who he really is, as much as anyone can ever be said to have any sort of a clue about that to begin with, in that I know haven't, so that will be interesting from an anthroplogical perspective, if nothign else!
Other things I've been doing lately are, a couple of weeks ago, (God already!),after much debating with myself, decided to go the Star and Garter thing, as I did to the last one, even though I didn't know what any Moz-soloists looked like, except one or two, thanks to the photo-gallery on Sweetness's site, so off I went to that, just a seven minute train ride from where I live, or a 35 minute walk, which I didn't do, because it was fucking freezing that night, plus walking through the part of Manchester I live in the evenings, is not a good idea, generally, and I have the scars to prove it. So it's took me exactly, (more or less) two weeks before writing about it here, which gives some idea of how disinclined I am to do this journal these days. Well. After talking breifly to some guy, who said he comes to Morrissey-solo, using a nickname that has the word 'skin' in it, (although I can't remember exactly how) and then, shortly after, a lovely russet-haired girl I noticed sat near to me on her own who was studying brain surgery at Manchester Uni (so she told me) who also comes here, using a nickname I'd never heard of nor can remember now, I actually, whilst sort of shuffling about the dancefloor, wondering if I was actually dancing or not and not arriving at any adequate decision regarding that, noticed Squirrelhead walk past, who I recognised from Sweetness's' site, so introduced myself, so then got to meet the lovely Squirrelhead, and Sonofward, who she was with, and then by a procees of assocation, downstairs in the pub bit, got briefly introduced to a dutch girl, and two girls from Cincinatti USA who also come on here although I can't remember their nicknames. so I actually managed to get to talk to people from this site for a change, instead of slinking in on my own, and leaving on my own, like a shadow, as last time. I also might have bene introducedto Northern Bird, but that may well just have been some sort of weird hallucination that I coudl be prone to these days, as there's no mention of it in her account oif all the poeple she met, so it may well ahve never happened. Sorry to Squirrelhead and Sonofward, and even the US girl, if I waffled on incoherently a little, but my excuse is that I'd just drunk a bottle of wine before I left ma house, and several pints of beer in both the nearby Bull's Head, and the Star and Garter itself, so was a bit crapulent, and inclined to just say whatever came into my head no matter what it happened to be, generally thinking it was a good idea at the time, without censoring it too much. Yeuk!
Gotta say, the problem with a lot of Morrissey songs, is there just impossible to dance to, yet I admire how people try, regardless.
Apart from that, nothing much happening, other than in my soul or head, which is to do with things like pondering whether love is a mystical thing or a chemical thing, and trying to fight off the above mentioen crushing darkness, which I guess no one wants to hear about, if even they want to hear about anything I'm saying at all. Gotta, say though, amid all that despair, I got to see some top-quality television the other week, in which contestants from the audience were invited to create a likeness of various celebrities by using make-up, wigs, clothes props etc, on their naked arses, with a chance of winning a prize for the best one. The winner was someone who made their arse look like Michael Jackson, and I've got to say, it was remarkably lifelike. You could have sworn it was him. For this they won a holiday to Italy, or some such place. Well, who says English television is dumbing down? After that dose of high culture, there was at least a French film Les Enfants du siecle that I watched, about the writer George Sand and her love affair with the French playwright Mousset, and Oh Brother wherefore Art Thou,, which was very disappointing for a Coen Bros. film, and The Last Seduction, which , oh I can't be bothered writing anything else. Fuck it. My friends' catrs due any minute.
Sorry to see Pillow bail out on this site, as even thouygh I never commented on her journal, I used to always read it, and thought she was a pretty impressive personality to read about.
Argh car's here, no time to preview so I apologise for any mistakes....
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Tell it like it is: you were too drunk to type anything.
Anyway, good to see you didn't die under some lorry's wheels after all, and that you might still reply to my comments...
BTW, had a good laugh with "Mousset" . Alfred Foam, now that's a good name for a poet. Especially one who likes beer, or bubble baths... Maybe Alfred played with little plastic ducks?
Maybe you should try that too, next time you're feeling down, all wondering what love is...(now, really! That's a rather silly mental activity, ain't it? I think you should get a job.)