OREN AMBARCHI/JOHAN BERTHLING/ANDREAS WERLIIN

OREN AMBARCHI/JOHAN BERTHLING/ANDREAS WERLIIN AT KINGS PLACE, LONDON – 14/05/23

Wife thinks it’s “insane” going to London for a gig on a Sunday “at my age”. But, I think, I’m only forty-five, and I’ve never felt better. It may be the meds talking, but I’m in the prime of life, as far as I’m concerned. Daughter tells me I look like Superman, because a curl of hair has fallen across my forehead in the Superman style. “You look like Superman,” she says. “Yes,” I say ridiculously, “I suppose I am quite like Superman.” “No, you’re not,” she replies firmly. “You just look like him.”

By the time I get to St. John’s Wood I am so desperate for a wee that my face has turned a rich shade of crimson and I’m talking manically to myself. I pull over by a park where I know there’s a public toilet but, for some inexplicable reason, a man is locking them up as I race towards the entrance. I have no choice but to urinate behind some nearby bins. Evidently, someone had recently found themselves in an equally, if not more, desperate position as there is a large pile of human shit right where I’m pissing, just sitting there.

I sell/exchange some records at Flashback and then head to King’s Cross where I’m meeting B__ D______ at Bao for something to eat. I arrive early and order a “seasonal soda” which turns out to be “spiced lemonade”. It’s pretty much the best damn lemonade I’ve ever tasted. Later, after chatting with B__ D______ about how much we dislike holidays and other things, I order a “bubble tea”. I’ve never had a “bubble tea” before and I’m intrigued, but it’s actually kind of gross, with these weird balls of jelly stuff which keep popping unsettlingly through the wide metallic straw.

The modern meaning of “ghosted” is when you cut off all communication with someone, usually online, ignoring their texts, calls or messages, and I’ve often wondered at the title of that album by OREN AMBARCHI, JOHAN BERTHLING and ANDREAS WERLIIN. Like, why did they call it that? I mean, why does anyone call anything anything, right? Absolutely. But then I wonder, right after the three men have wandered onstage, without a word or glance towards the audience, that maybe it’s us that’s being ghosted. Here we are sitting in absolute pin-drop silence – I can actually hear people breathing behind me – no need to applaud, or dance; no interaction necessary; we kind of might as well not even be here, or at least it might not make much difference if we weren’t. In the sense that these guys would just be doing this stuff regardless, whether we were here or not. A foolish thought, really, but there you go.

I spend a lot of time when I’m listening to music these days thinking about how to describe it, how to put it into words, which is a pretty fucking futile endeavour at the best of times. I usually just end up comparing it to a tree or water or something like, which is a complete waste of time by anyone’s standards. The music tonight reminds me of the time I climbed Cheddar Gorge on acid. The slow, calm, almost hypnotic climb to the summit, the wild, ecstatic freedom of the descent, and the surreal walk back to reality, a different person, changed, somehow, by the experience. 

Ghosted

It’s all over by eight, which is great. Everything should be all over by eight, as far as I’m concerned.

I write my notes at dusk by the water fountains near where R____ took his first steps.

Where R____ took his first steps

On the drive home I see a dead cat on the Great West Road and I wonder what it means.

REPUBLICAN

I used to really like The Tudors. I used to think it was just the right balance of boobs, bastards, and beheadings. Or something like that. And I remember thinking and even saying once or twice that getting rid of the Royal Family would be an act of “cultural vandalism” akin to Henry VIII’s destruction of the monasteries. I no longer think that. And I’m beginning to wonder whether the Reformation might not have actually been one of the best things that ever happened to this country. Because, like the monarchy now, the monasteries’ main area of expertise seemed to have been exploitation of the people they claimed to serve. Hoodwinking people with ceremony and show while indulging in lives of peace and privilege. Maybe Henry was right. Burn it down. Dismantle it. Brick by brick. 

The place where I work is named after an old queen. I received complaints after referring to the Royal Family as “a load of racists and paedophiles”. I had to have a meeting. I was advised to be more “cautious”.

The estimated cost of the coronation is one hundred million pounds. I wonder why they have to estimate it at all. Surely there was a budget. Surely someone is counting the cost. And that seems like a very conservative estimate to me. I doubt king Charles would even be able to have a picnic for much less than that.

In offering his justification for attending the ceremony, Nick Cave claimed that the coronation was likely to be “the most important historical event in the UK of our age”. I can’t imagine what might make him think this. It is no more “important” or “historical” than the arcane rituals of privilege that take place behind closed doors at Eton or the Bullingdon Club, or the Garter Throne Room. There is nothing strange or weird about it, as Cave asserts, or “Shakespearean” as Michael Billington wrote in The Guardian. The “mystery” and “strangeness” is purely functional and, therefore, not really mysterious or strange at all. Its purpose is to guard and maintain the grotesque and inexcusable privilege of its participants. Its just part of the act, a performance, nothing more. It’s like kids raiding a dress up box; except it’s not kids it’s powerful old people, rich beyond measure, yet grey in soul and spirit, and the dress up box is the nation’s treasure. 

Maybe the old queen’s coronation was an important historical event. She was young and offered hope and change at a time of great upheaval and hardship. It was the first time many people had watched a live television event. Things like that were special then. Momentous, even. You can understand that. This time round, even most of the royal’s traditional supporters seem a bit nonplussed. And you can understand that too. Charles has nothing to offer. Hopelessly out of touch, divorced from the reality of his subjects’ lives, disfigured by his birthright, grey and doddering, the only things Charles can hope to symbolise are the corruption, cronyism, inequality and decay at the heart of “this sceptred isle” that really, in this age of Grenfell and food banks, double-digit inflation and stagnating wages, should be “sceptred” no more. 

Where’s Henry VIII when you need him?