The bedroom wall had hundreds of small articles about music, cut out from newspapers. Album reviews. Profiles. Gig reviews.
One song title stands out. One title has me impatient for the CD to get to Track 7.
Shirl did sort me out and I swapped my licence plates with a screwdriver I remembered to bring, because I was an organised adult now.
It’s a close-knit community and there’s lots of crossover in band members from one group to another. The kids are always welcoming and delighted to see me.
Here he is on the telly. Careering about in a golf buggy. Dancing. Having a ball. I find the song on the interweb and YouTube tells me it’s had 593,254,616 views. So far. Incomprehensible.
The next thing I knew I was on the ground. A paramedic was talking to me. I didn’t know what they were saying.
It was a big deal in my heart when my brother responded enthusiastically to my studiously low key suggestion that he and I form a scratch band to play at the St Andrews Festival in 2007.
This love felt frightening. This love felt dangerous, even. And gambling everything for it – including my own life – felt reckless. But still.
For the first time in years, after hearing a song for the first time I had to listen to it again, and again, and yet again.
For once, people in Los Angeles and London and New York might be sitting around listening to a song about where I lived, rather than my sitting around listening to songs about all the places that they live.