The summer nights get cold here. Seems counterintuitive, but that’s just how it is. I spent the last of my retirement money on this mobile home. We’ll just drive around, sleep where we stop. We’ve been bumping around inside it like two feral cats, and it’s turning into a blood sport.
I drink straight from the bottle. Another argument. I can’t remember what we were arguing about. She was meant to go into town to get some medicine. I was meant to go into town to get some food.
So we sit outside in silence.
As the sun starts to sink, I pick up some wood and we start a fire. I throw on my licence, my passport. She throws hers down too, and we watch them burn. I pour some petrol on. She dances by the fire and I join her, close, together, my arm round her waist and hers on my shoulder.
I swig from the bottle and we stumble into the mobile home, dishes flying, TV broken, her need and mine together. I pull her hair and she bites my chest, and then we sleep.
In the morning, I wake up and hear gunshots.
I grab the gun from the safe and go outside.
She’s standing out there shooting.
Two revolvers, twelve rounds between them, and she has fired all hers.
I load one round and spin the chamber. She reloads one of hers and does the same.
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
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.
(c) Paul Andrew Sneddon
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.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 