”Listen man, we can help. We can change your life.
You need to: Curate. Curate. Curate.
I read on.
Remember:
Stay on brand. Run your pictures by us. Try to write something cheery.
We’ve got some new friends for you. New haunts. New life.
And while you are at it, you could smarten up:
New haircut. New clothes. New shoes.
We know a stylist in the city. You’ll be a whole new person. You’re writing will change Just turning the volume down a little So much easier Smooth out the edges. Sand them down.
I was dreaming last night. About you. And me. We were walking to our house, under the Scottish sun. Its warmth. Light.
Ayrshire light. Leading us home.
We walked hand in hand.
The house sat on its own. In a clear, empty field. An endless sky above, clouds rolling across its deep blue. A gravel path. A garden alive with colours. Up the step.
The door open, we crossed the threshold together.
The house is warm. A fire burning. I poured us a drink. We sat together. Smiles, Laughter. The music played. You ran your hands through my hair.
This is some of the writing from my story ‘Follow the Light’
And we are off, bleary-eyed, into the Ayrshire morning. Emmy looks gorgeous, her short blonde hair and a smile that I would never tire of seeing.
My car sitting on the street coughs up a cloud of exhaust fumes as I turn the key. A few commuters on their way to the station do a double-take, but we breeze past them, leaving them choking in our wake.
We get a good run of lights as we hit the dual carriageway. I light up a smoke, and she flicks through the radio until she finds something she likes. The radio crackles to life with one of those old songs you know but can’t quite place.
For a moment, it’s like we aren’t ghosts at all.
We sing along to the chorus. She looks at me, and I look straight back. The engine opens up on the dual carriageway and we are cutting through the Ayrshire morning.
We’re analogue in a digital age; we’re radio in the streaming age.
We are the words written on the page.
And we don’t give a fuck if that’s good enough for you.
The pub holds promise, but I need to stay sober. If I can.
The underground just keeps going. Loops. All day long. For the price of one ticket.
Got time to kill. A cold winter day. It keeps you warm. No ticket inspector. Just one ticket on, one ticket off.
People, faces, quiet, loud. All day long you see them, looking awkwardly at the adverts, avoiding eye contact. It’s okay, I don’t mind. Ride on, ride on. I’ve got some soul on the headphones. I’m not alone. Mavis Staples, “We’re Going to Make It.”
Or the library. Heat and all those books. Good company when you’ve got nowhere to go. A mind revolution, walls broken down, different lives, different perspectives. Changed, alive, brain firing.
Or the nights the library is closed and you can’t find peace. When you’re too tired for books.
Then it’s music and walking and burning a hole in the soles of your shoes. It’s city streets, dreams, hopes, angels in the cracks of the pavement, the river bridge, smoking a joint in the car park.
With an old friend, or a new friend.
Then through the crowds, all these people with places to go. Just keep moving.
Check the clock. 8pm.
Into the venue, grab a beer. Familiar faces. Smiles and warmth.
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
Paul Andrew Sneddon 