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.