The Strokes

12 years ago five good-looking young men from New York released a classic rock 'n' roll album, kickstarting a whole new wave of guitar bands, along with fellow Americans, The White Stripes. Guitar music was as exciting as it had been for some time once more. It was the band's debut long player, leaving the immediate question - 'what next?' How do you follow such brilliance? Well, obviously, more often than not the only way is down, and sometimes it is an horrific spiral downwards.

It isn't possible to fluke such a great record, so talent is certainly present, even if peaking early does occur at times. This band, however, has something that fascinates me. I would say despite all the guitars it has an extremely pop heart behind its ribcage. In fact, the catchy songs, wonderfully melodic fleeting guitar solos and mixture of lazy, aggressive and beautifully sung vocals are all trademarks of one of the bands of the age. So their second album, hot on the heels of the debut did try to replicate its sound with a somewhat weaker repertoire of songs, but everything since has shown the band to be troubled, human, and inspiring in its battle and search. Who cares about the word 'cool' anyway, it has nothing to do with good music?

Yesterday, after many trials and tribulations, and long after the stage where many bands would have succumbed to the pantheon of musical memories, this band released its fifth album, 'Comedown Machine.' I want to write about these guys because they have clearly fought past the problems that such success caused and a possible loss of direction and they have overcome their demons to become a positive fully functioning unit again.They share a love of music. That is why they stay together, that is why they release new music and nothing else seems to matter. That is what this new record says to me. Also, it sounds like a hell of a lot of fun went into it. Music. The thing that makes so many of us draw breath.

So, nothing else matters. Not how much money their families had when they were growing up, nor the story of their personal lives. We will only be left with the music, that echoes in our headphones, that fills the halls of university campuses and homes in all different places. Maybe the way we listen to music has changed a lot in recent times, but the excitement, sheer pleasure and love for it is as ever, and no it shall not be dimmed, it shall remain.

These five guys should be proud for sticking to their guns, for emerging from the tunnel into the light and for making music that continues to show their talent, their evolution and their will to experiement. Thanks guys, glad to have you back!

Dedicated to The Strokes.

Riddles

It's so easy to let it happen. Chasing answers, solutions, getting lost in mazes. The waves come slowly, rolling over us. Peace. At last. It's all going to come. In the end. It all fits, like a puzzle, but sometimes the pieces are not put in place by us. The art of patience, the dynamic images. I show you my all. You turn a back. Riddles of the night. Darkness, I unfathomably pretend you are not present. Love, an eternal quest. I cannot even end it...

You (The Unexpected)

There you are, some beacon of hope when all is okay but nothing quite feels so powerful and glowing. In the night, the radiating warmth of light and potential love. Once more everything I least expect falling at my feet, and can I genuinely collect it up, all for myself, or should I accept it will never be close enough to me? The wind comes along and carries it from me, like leaves in autumn sorrow. Just to lay my eyes on you, upon you, for how lucky they have been, and the thoughts that linger behind the eyes, that orchestrate the way the heart can feel, ah, well I thank you and all for those. I lose myself in the words, in writing, in thoughts of you and you and you, and it never ends. Sleep come for me, sleep wrap me up. Take me to her, take me to you. Standing out, as you do, nothing will ever be the same. Not ever again.

The Cobbled Streets of Yore

I live in a place called Wonderland. Of course, it is not so wonderful to all, and throws horrific memories to some, who were torn from this beloved city and feel totally rejected by her. We all look to blame something or some force when rejected, especially when cast into a land of horrors the human mind can scarcely conceive.

This place is magical, but as in other beautiful places, tragedy has been witnessed by some of the buildings here, by some of the streets, and if the walls could talk then too dark would their mutterings be for our softened ears (so protected from the past we seem at times, and so incredibly well guided have many of us been since). For we live in a prosperous age, at least it feels like there is freedom that our recent ancestors did not have the fortune to experience, and regardless of other riches this would seem to be the true key to understanding and enjoying our time on earth.

The cobbled streets of yore, have not only seen these things, they have held them in their hands. The same streets that had dead bodies just left to rot there, that had the sound of lonely feet, searching, looking for family, that had voices and torment and agony echo off them. For what the streets have seen they shall never forget.

Those who related their personal horrors from these times clearly lived with the ghost inside them, there was no acting here, the torture and sadness in their eyes was clear to see, but we could never truly fathom what they live with each day, what they genuinely had to experience.

I feel like it is the easiest thing in the world to need to acknowledge, and the hardest one to ever bring any justice to with my words. Perhaps it is simply about being aware and taking in some of these stories, these horrors and helping me to appreciate my existence, to treat others with care and love, and be happy that I have a peaceful soul, which unfortunately, still, is not the case the world over. Only through tragedy do we truly see the beauty, only can we find what is hidden if we open our eyes.

So, to tie it all back in, Wonderland is my home. I love this place dearly, but to see the harrowing events that this place and others have brought to people simply makes me think more deeply about my surroundings and everyone else and their pain. Wonderland is more a notion than an actual place, but even the greatest places have darkness, even the hardest hearts can be broken into tiny pieces and destroyed. The will of us, as a race, to keep fighting, to maintain hope and to never give up, as ever, astonishes me to my bones.

May the souls of all those taken so needlessly be forever filled with love, gratitude and warmth. Bless them all!

Blackadder

She was some dark princess
She was the blackadder
She fell from some other place
Not our sky
Some black leaf
To wrap around
Blanket lagoon
Weeping child
You are the words on my pages
You are the wind that creeps
Echoes inside the chamber of the bones
You are lullabies
Filling the sky
Crisp and tarred and beautiful born
How could I ever leave
Without loving you here?
How could we not grow into dreams?
Forever exists
If we so do wish

Andy (for March 12, 2013)

...and the days slip by
and never we know
who spares a thought
for where our winds blow
and the night time comes
and it takes us away
and we are each other
but we'd never say

thanks for the wishes
that climb into thoughts
sinking like stones
of magical sorts
and songs that emerge
from the tongue with their wings
we are forever
the body that sings

Best wishes,
With love

Snowy Bowie

The weather in this place had taken an unexpected turn. It was snowing again. Just as this week had thrown a new David Bowie record into our ears, nothing was what we predicted. I love the element of surprise, at times. So white flakes were once again, over a week after spring had seemed to appear before the eyes and every sense, starting to fall. It was pretty yes, it was so cold again though. I don't mind if the cold leaves for a while now, such is the grey gloom that consumes us and these days. I am ready for something different, another surprise, a pleasant one. I felt a snowy Bowie day today. Music in my ears. Something that maybe hadn't seem likely for a while there and that blows most people making music, much, much younger, completely out of the water. The new album rocks like a behemoth. It's utterly gorgeous in parts, and it shows a man who could easily have passed his finest moment on magnificent form as he reaches towards old age. Truly he was every snowflake falling, he was inspiration beyond the windowpane. He was a hero. He was falling out of the sky now, like a gift, like a lullaby.

Paradise

There are no words
To each his or her own
An ideal
A deeply fashioned view of the world
To share with another
If close enough they grow

We could bathe each other
Then escape down the plug
Follow some river
Flow into the sea
Every second lasts forever
When we are together

You have yours
And I me mine
We could miss each other
Always we would pine
But our worlds can come together
All of the time

This place
For us
Threatens
Everything we were
Abandon fear
To embrace the love,
My dear

Roles of the Century

It has never been played out before. This. Everything should be different. Should be. This is. For certain. The roles of the century, perhaps. What we portray is up to us. Our parts have scripts even, but each person brings something different to a role, there are gestures and tricks and movements that nobody else could do. So the curtains are raised and we play out our parts. Beautifully. For you, and love of everything. The muscles you move, the way you operate them. Delicious. Play into my arms. Orchestrate these days. Fall into grace. The way you are, is a figure to be reckoned with.

To Those It May Concern

To those it may concern                                                                              02/03/13

How do we come to view one another? Who sees the love inside, or the darkness? Who sees it in us? I ask you. What we truly are and the beauty within, it feels like it reaches few. It's all possible. Does it happen though? What are those ones looking for? What and how do they see? Many questions we could throw out there, into the midst of the madness. I want to ask no more questions, just mull it over. The drug pool of love, the surrounding pools. We get lost, we break inside, showing nothing out here. I wonder who cares amongst you. I think it makes it hard, to have to guess. To see no signs at all. To constantly have to try the mathematics when no equation seems to fit. Maybe it is just to give it meaning if and when someone arrives and finally takes a look, or is compatible with your character even, to just open up your soul like a book and see every word inside. It's harrowing and majestic all at once. One set of eyes, they see it. Truly they do. Make magic in front of me, watch me cast my spell, together some unfathomable thing. Just a thing. Like heaven, is just a thing. Something like that. I want to say more, but nobody likes to receive neverending mail. So, maybe it will be continued, and maybe I will forget it all within minutes and move on to the next topic.
Please feel free to join my sordid little envelope.

Your sincerely,

Whatever you fucking want me to be

My Late Night Feast

A woman. A woman so perfect in a moment it almost destroys time, the concept of it. Nothing else around. At all. Only the seconds ticking by utterly perfectly. Furiously. A woman. One body. A universe.In my hands. On my lips. Magical you. If I'm dreaming, still happiness excapsulates me. A warm bath to drown in. Sublime.

The most powerful man in the universe. The most powerful woman. A collision.

You stumble. I'll lend a hand, catch your fall, graceful or not. And the heart opens, and the heart closes, and it opens again. Beating to songs, to life, to crescendo and then end. The aftermath. The kisses. Of eyes, of lips, of bodies. Everything in its right place. One more time.