Paul Andrew Sneddon

Long Walk Home

Part 4 of Rock and Roll is Dead

Across town, that same noise sounded like a hammer to his head
as Hubie got back to his dressing room.

He picked up the open bottle of champagne and took a swig.
The door behind him opened. “Thirty minutes to the meet and
greet.”

Hubie threw the bottle at the door. It smashed on the wall with
a crash. “Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off!” he screamed.
“Tell the others to do the fucking meet and greet.”

He opened a bottle of vodka and took a swig. He thought of
the ladies in the front row. Jesus. Could be fun. But he already
had his own high priestess of pain and sex. He checked his phone.
He thought of the smell of her perfume, her leather, her kiss. She
would be here soon. He pined for her, for the oblivion she brought.

He looked at the itinerary. A thirty-date swing through Europe.
Like a funeral march. Then he could bury this band. He would
be free of this business. They have been fucking over rock and
roll since the beginning. Anywhere you got art, talent, fire, you
got some arsehole who thought it was his job to represent… himself,
mostly. Well, fuck ‘em all.

He thought back to the early days, when they were hungry,
confident. The rush of playing and recording music, meeting
people. The connection at the shows. Even before all this,
music has been everything. Up in his room. Learning old songs,
discovering the classics. Writing his first songs.

It was simple then. He didn’t have much. But he had the music.
He looked at all the crap in his dressing room: like a police
report already written out, it was just missing the handgun. His
ears rang, but he could still hear music and voices from the
hallway.

He felt like breaking the TV but couldn’t muster the energy. He
looked at Terry’s smug card on the table, it was on everything,
all over town. Bring Your Ghost to the Fire, presented by Terry
Anders.

Whose fucking band is this?

He felt his anger rise but didn’t move. He just had to stay alive.
So many ways to lose yourself, and he was barely hanging on.
He picked up the acoustic guitar and it took all his effort to
strum a loose A minor chord.

‘One day, some way, we’re going to rise up…..sing my song’
He sighed.
‘My song… My song’
Fuck off Terry.

There was a knock at the door.

“Go away.”

“It’s me,” came a voice from the other side.
It was her. She didn’t wait; she opened the door and walked in
wearing black boots, her hair high tumbling down. She crossed
the room with confidence, slipping off her coat revealing a tight
leather dress.
“Did you miss me, bitch?” she smiled, and they kissed. She
held his face close.

“I brought you a present,” and she put a few pills in his hands,
which he quickly swallowed.

‘Good boy,’ she smiled as she took off his shirt.

Hubie forgot about the fans, the music. He forgot about the
guitars, just another part of the business

Whatever Tomorrow Podcast

Episode 2: Bus Stop Boogie

In this episode of the Whatever Tomorrow podcast I’ve got a new song ‘Shine’ as well as spoken word in ‘Bus Stop Boogie’ and ‘Let It All Be’

*IN THIS EPISODE:* —

00:00 – Intro Music & Welcome
00:54 – Creative Update: New recordings
03:15 – SPOKEN WORD: “Bus Stop Boogie”
05:05– MUSICAL PERFORMANCE: “Shine” (Original Song)
08:13– A thought on art and interpretation
09:00 – SPOKEN WORD: “Let It All Be”
10:05 – Sign-off & Outro

Bus Stop Boogie

Bus stop in the gentle rain,
Waiting,
Waiting.

Old couple arguing about something, nipping at each other.

Dressed like they are on a hill-walking expedition in monsoon season for the trip down to the bingo.

Sharing a packet of Wotsits.

The wet grass.
Cars rolling by in the street,
Turn up the volume,
Ian Dury and the Blockheads
Burst through my headphones.

And I’m traveling,
Borneo,
Bordeaux,
Fantastique.

Feet tapping,
Moving,
Near ready to fly.
Suddenly, shoulders start going,
And the arms,

Like a dad dancing special at a wedding,

I’m moving.

The Missus is over the road walking a dog,
Chuckles and gives me a wave.
Saxophone solo hits,
I give her a wave back.

And I’m moving like Jagger,

Moving smooth like an old soul band,
Busting some moves like Sam and Dave,
Found the 46-year-old version of the splits,
I’m channelling James Brown.

The lights are on at the bus stop,
Like a late-night club.

Me and her are dancing together,
She always was a great dancer,
Natural rhythm,
Her perfume.

The dog’s the DJ,
Spinning the songs,
Looking at us like,

“You got this.”

The old couple are boogying together,
They used to do salsa,
They announce,
“You young ones are missing out,”

They laugh.

As me and my lady dance closer,
Slower,
As the beat hits,

And we are dancing down
The Champs-Élysées,
Santa Fe,
Troon Bay,
Roses and fireworks.

We hear the bus,
but it can wait.

At least a beat.

Let It All Be

I see an advert at the bus stop.

The open road of the USA,
highway stretching through Monument Valley.

Nah, I’d rather be here.

On the bus,
headphones alive,
listening to something real —

like Traquair and the Tranquilizers,
or Steve Adams singing,
“Have you washed your hands?”

Heading to Irvine beach
in the peelywally Scottish sun.

The kind of day
you need sunscreen and a hoody,
just in case.

The old town is alive with
sun seekers,
joggers,
families
and old ones.

Down those old roads,
along the harbour.

Smiles at the Hac.
I get the feeling
that might be my kind of place.

Past the ghost of The Big Idea,
drawbridge up.

I’m going to walk from Irvine to Barassie
along the beach.

The water slowly rippling in,
the sound of seagulls,
and the further along you get,
the people fade away,

and it almost feels like you are alone.

Arran in the distance,
keeping a watchful eye.

Jumping over the streams and sandbanks,
the occasional dog sprinting past,
chasing his ball.

I run my hands through the water.
Take a breath.

I turn off the music.
Take a seat in the sand.

Just sit back,
and let it all be.

Life is life.

Sunday Nights

Kettle’s boiling.

Wee man just scored the winner, 20-18, in the garden cup.

When did he get so good?

Running circles ’round the old man.
Rainbow flicks and nutmegs.
Almost make me wish I’d gone easier on him in those first games.

Hear you calling from the kitchen: “It’s ready!”

Toasted cheese or roasted cheese? Cheese on toast… We never could agree.

And a spot on the couch, your smile, your laugh, as you steal the best seat.

Your eyes smiling, 20 years of love, as you turn on the TV.
Everyone Loves Raymond, family favourite, a Channel 4 special, familiar as the Ayrshire rain.

Smiling faces, all together.
Sunday evening.

(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon

Top Five

I was bored one day.

Writing lists:
Top 5 songs.
Top 5 taxi rides.
Top 5 bars.
Top 5 boozy nights I can remember…

Top 5 places I woke up.

At the bar:
As the light stole in,
Like a thief.
Her smiling,
We need to get out of here.

In her bed:
Ayrshire Rain at the window,
Our bodies tangled.
Under the covers.
Never want to leave.
I have to leave now.

On a bench outside the station:
With the rain coming down.
And a note in my pocket.
And a ticket home.
And a hangover.
Like an old friend.
And the ticket inspector looking confused,
Did you sleep here last night?

Aye pal, with a guitar case for a pillow.

Now I just need to hear the rhythm of the train tracks,
Like a steady snare.

On the beach:
First rays of an Ayrshire morning
Guitar next to me,
Notebook filled with songs.
Dreams.
Early walker looking at me like,
What the fuck?

Here with you:
I’m older now,
I was younger then.
I’ve learned a little,
Just enough.
There’s nowhere I’d rather be.

Last Dance

Part 4 of Rock and Roll is Dead

Across the bar, Ami was flicking through her notebook of songs and lyrics, glancing at the empty glass and empty seat opposite her.

They would have to play fucking Idlewild at the end of a breakup. Fuck it. It was done.

Call me a fucking bitch. Prick. He’ll be away home to tell his maw all about it. Either that or he’ll be back for an acting award.

She pushed her specs back up her nose and swallowed hard. How the fuck are people together for forty years? she wondered. What the fuck do they talk about?

I mean, come on, dating a dentist? Plenty of money, but the chat? Christ. Putting my guitars away. Fuck off. The cheek of it.

Ah well, fuck him. What’s done is done.

She had lost some security maybe but now she had her freedom. Fair trade.

She browsed her phone; there was the listing. Wednesday night. The open mic would be on down the road. It had been a while, but she had a new song that she was aching to let out into the world.

She looked over to the bar and saw Lauren holding court. She wondered about all the Idlewild songs tonight; it seemed unusual for this bar. Normally it’s all new songs and rock and roll.

She got up and walked to the door. She heard the two lads arguing about Led Zeppelin and online, but she kept walking out into the cold Glasgow night.

She walked along the pavements as the streetlights lit up, and she could hear the thud of bass from the Riverside Dome.