Sunday, June 5, 2016

2016.06.04 - Live at Elbo Room

Chapter One

Chapter One.

He had turned the tea kettle on early that morning, at some point before the dark had completely retreated back behind the scotch tape snapped blinds. The morning was lingering, long and hard, slow and scratched down the back of his throat. Or maybe it was screaming a bit late last night, possibly alone with eyes welded shut amongst the long heeled chat boxes that melted formless just beyond the safety of eyelids. But the morning, she still laid there sullen and demanding. Wake up, be a part of this.

He placed his thick bulk headphones clenched against his skull and wished away more time against. The song was linear. In one ear, and the next, and moving strictly from beat to beat in a way that made perfect sense. It was all there to see, only the fools could somehow trick them selves long enough to believe it was magic. If there was magic, he was sure it was somehow lost long ago in the way the thing was captured. What was pounding now against this morning head was just a byproduct. A remembrance. Something that those who weren't a part, those that never were could only ever pretend to understand. And he knew it. But, in terms of helping forget, it's as good as anything else.

Inside those headphones, aside from artifact given by people possibly too high to remember, spiked a high squeal.

Again, this morning, well she wouldn't stop. Fast retreating toward the day siren that would punish those who lay in bed, forsaking the green and blue of that big world outside. He fumbled for the equalizer. Tune out the squeal. It was starting to hurt.

Nothing, no, nothing helped. It was there. Ever present. Buried amongst the drums and guitar and vocals so ever slightly off pitch in a way that used to be deemed human, was the high, screaming, squeal.

Fuck. He slide the fader of the treble to near invisible in a lazy fashion, brushing it against the slowly descending values. The overall impression of noise became so mudded, but there, spilt in stereos for both ears, was that fucking scream. A witches wail. He shifted in bed, kicked off the blanket. It was too hot anyway. Eyes slide up the pulsing red numbers of the air unit slammed awkwardly into the side window. 70 degrees. Indoors always feels so much warmer. So, no blanket.

Then, acceptance. Fuck it, bad gear. Audio interference. Something causing feedback. Fuck if he knew, and he didn't care. Not enough sleep, love, time, regret. Whatever. This wail would now be a part of the music used to forget.

Song three went by, as did four. He wan't moving much, or paying mind to anything. Last night was a blur anyways, and he's sure there was something said that was off. That feeling that slowly slices up your guts when you know you said something, to someone. Offensive? Maybe. Fuck, probably. This though wasn't the time. He was thirsty. Have to use his legs and rise, possibly, no, fuck, most likely, walk up to the fridge. So, headphones off.

Fuck, the tea kettle. Right.