Tuesday, 31 July 2012
02:35:17 PM (GMT)
down off the nova somewhere near the boiled egg that is the Royal Albert Hall, we
watch Paul's sun crossed with John's star and hold ice cream hands. Someone slipped
on a cassette as the one you wanted left with someone else but somehow it was cool
because as the music filled the shadows, you heard a sound that was a million miles
away from fakery and a step away from your heart.
Just like it always did, this sound puts the swagger back into your step, the rush
into your blood, but somehow, and I don't know how, they had become deeper, wider,
soulful, better at their craft, inspired by so many things like a world that is
tilting who knows where and the applause they always knew was theirs but waited so
impatiently to receive. Words cut you from all angles, backed up by a monumental
sound that rises high, high and high to crash against your rocks and then changes,
majestically and magically to soothe the wounds inside.
As you are dragged inside on this trip abandon, you hear a council estate singing its
heart out, you hear the clink of loose change that is never enough to buy what you
need, boredom and poverty, hours spent with a burnt out guitar, dirty pubs and
cracked up pavements, violence and Iove, all rolled into one, and now all this.
At the end you flip over and start again because now you are not isolated. They have
gone to work so that you can go home. High above the day turns pink and you feel your
feet lift above the ground as new roads open up in front of you. In this town the
jury is always rigged but the people know. They always know the truth. Believe.
Belief. Beyond. Their morning glory.
- by the eternal paolo hewitt in the
summer of '95