Hold out for the Space Echo   Leave a comment

There’s been some debate as to whether people’s dreams are interesting second-hand, and whether mine are adding anything to the diary. Given the alternative is a description of events in my real actual life; I think they constitute a little variety at least.

So last night I’m watching (seemingly from a small aircraft which enables overhead shots and cinematic swoops into the heart of the action) three very strange primitive-looking men(almost non-homo-sapiens – very stocky and dark) rushing through shallow water with a hollow log which they use to entrap Caymans. Incredibly fast and dangerous-looking. The Caymans keep narrowly escaping and thrashing about in the water. The men are moving incredibly fast.

Then I was in a large department store and suddenly Syd was missing. Then I saw that his pushchair has rolled down several flights of steps and out in the street. I raced out to save him. Rain was falling on his upturned face. He looked sad but not distressed.

Next I am with a group of young men who have turned up for the beginning of some kind of course or training-scheme. One of them is the singer from (local fops) The Dawn Parade. I seem to have some kind of supervisory role, or am at least responsible for the boxes of stationary and vinyl LPs that are piled on desks around us. I suddenly sense criminal intent in the minds of some of the young men, and in particular Dawn Parade-boy. I notice he is concealing an LP under his jacket in an over-casual manner. Action elsewhere keeps distracting my attention, but I can clearly see what he is up to and I’m saying to myself you fucking amateur. I suspect this is because he was acting as compere at The Wild Skies gig.

A deeply enjoyable CRS* (is that pronounced kurse?)/ Broken Family Band (or, as CRS* geezer seemed to introduce them, The Bloke-In-Family Band) gig at The Champion Of The Thames on Tuesday. I’m much more of a fan of CRS* since seeing them at The Simon-Baker All Dayer recently. Maybe I read too much in but I’m sure Arthur and Matt were having some kind of silent onstage barney (amidst all the Mogwai, sorry, elegiac guitar noise) along the lines of:

“Play in time you drunken cunt!”

“I am!”

“You’re not!”

“I am, see?!”

“You’re not, see!”

I’m always watching that kind of thing when I see a band. It’s like my Eastenders. I once watched a group of about 9 African singers/mbira players in full tribal dress play (crowded onto the tiny stage) to about 5 people at the Portland and the expressions of involvement-in-the-act faded from the lead guy at the front to the 3rd woman-singer at the back with a savage decline. I came out utterly exhausted from the ecstasies of the subtext. I’m also gutted because they’d brought with them an electrified thumb-piano (1/4 inch jack out/ gorgeously home-made) and they wanted about 30 notes and I stinged it and I’ll never see one of them in Resale. Still a bit aggrieved that I didn’t get that Watkins CopyCat. Hold out for the Space Echo I guess.

Oh yeah, I haven’t got Ringworm or impetigo. I’ve got shingles.

Posted May 3, 2002 by peteum2013 in Uncategorized

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