Write like you mean it
Recent visitors to the Lighthouse (all three of you) will have noticed a certain monomania creeping in. Frankly, even thinking about ID cards and the LARRB is giving me headaches, so from now, I propose to write about anything *but* the sort of topics that are, in any case, better covered elsewhere (Devil's Kitchen, Dead Men Left, Bloggerheads, ChickYog etc.) I am not as funny as these three men and cannot write like these three women. So, I am going to follow the old maxim, and write about what I know. And, more importantly, what makes me happy.
What does make me happy? Well, the scent of my girlfriend's hair. Old cars. Wales actually winning something. Good veggie curry. But, to start, music.
One of the most significant moments in my life came one boring Sunday afternoon when I was eleven. My mother, as she so often is, was ironing. I was looking through my mother's LP collection. I came across one album that had great cover art; an airbrush picture of a man with hair like a halo and huge, melancholy eyes. I wondered what he sounded like. I carefully removed the record from the sleeve, blew off the dust, and placed it on the turntable.
A second or three after the needle landed on the record, the opening notes of Hey Joe rang out, and two minutes later I had started a lifelong affair with music via the sublime Jimi Hendrix. It was a total awakening. Since then, I have spent hundreds on obscure CDs, followed bands, been in bands, and worn some awful t-shirts, and it all dates back to that moment.
If there was more to do in Wales on a Sunday afternoon in the early nineties, I'd never have found that album that day.
Hoorah for boredom.
What does make me happy? Well, the scent of my girlfriend's hair. Old cars. Wales actually winning something. Good veggie curry. But, to start, music.
One of the most significant moments in my life came one boring Sunday afternoon when I was eleven. My mother, as she so often is, was ironing. I was looking through my mother's LP collection. I came across one album that had great cover art; an airbrush picture of a man with hair like a halo and huge, melancholy eyes. I wondered what he sounded like. I carefully removed the record from the sleeve, blew off the dust, and placed it on the turntable.
A second or three after the needle landed on the record, the opening notes of Hey Joe rang out, and two minutes later I had started a lifelong affair with music via the sublime Jimi Hendrix. It was a total awakening. Since then, I have spent hundreds on obscure CDs, followed bands, been in bands, and worn some awful t-shirts, and it all dates back to that moment.
If there was more to do in Wales on a Sunday afternoon in the early nineties, I'd never have found that album that day.
Hoorah for boredom.
posted by The Moai at 2:13 AM
1 Comments:
I only just found this, which is testament only that I am not a total links hag who keeps checking to see if she has any new references; even though taking this long to spot and acknowledge the compliment (thank you so very much!) does make me feel a little rude.
Sorry!
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