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.
I was playing guitar earlier, trying to finish a song I’d been writing. Got the notebook open. Chords written down. Something not quite working.
Frustrated. Breathe out. Take a break.
Sitting on the couch.
Switch on the TV. Flicking through videos. Can’t settle. The talking heads, the influencers and the product placements, the endless twenty-first-century noise.
Too much.
The screen goes blank and then there they are. Jeff Tweedy and his band appear on the TV. Alll of a sudden and without warning.
Guitar, mics. The band look at each other.
The beat hits. The bass.
The song hits me, wakes me up. Before I realise it, I’m moving around the living room, shouting to the missus,
“Have you heard this song?”
She’s laughing at my best moves. We’re dancing close. The guitar hits, and we’re jumping around like we don’t care if anyone is watching.
She says, “What’s that one called?” “Lou Reed Was My Babysitter.”
I hit play again. Jeff Tweedy and his band appear on the TV. I feel better already.
I’m sure I stood here before, in another life. On this stage, back to the drums, these shoes on the hardwood floor, singing this song like it was all I was, all I had. The drums keep the beat like my pulse.
I’m thinking of the room where this started. Alone, broke, writing. Sitting alone at the end of my bed, on the couch, on the floor. The window open, the cold air drifting in, your perfume lingering.
To here. To this moment.
Fighting the gravity, fighting the grey in the spotlight. Trying to prove, at least once, we are alive. Looking for a connection.
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.
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.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 