A thought struck me a little while ago when i caught, out of the corner of my eye, a well travelled friend. Friends, actually. Notebooks glinting their sparkling nostalgia, beckoning to be revisited. The ego does not lie, and begs all at once to be sated. So, the self concurred, and I opened the gates of horn and ivory.
With the benefit of decades now – well, fifteen or so years any way, it is interesting to look back on the lines in these little books of note, written in haste, automatically, attempting to paint an early morning sunrise over the darkness of memory. Things we are and what we pretend to be.
What circled in the skies, preying upon my every thought and mood? The mini disc recordings in many ways represents the culmination, and distillation, of the years spend seeking not much, but not nothing, in London. But even all those years ago, they speak to home so much more than i was willing to believe possible. Crying to leave. Crying to come back – and always something in between. Essentially, this show represents a psychoanalytic conceit, couched under the guise of entertainment, of a period of time that is no longer. Yet still, and always will be, a time that very much is.
Intricately part of these travels, and now this show – are these notebook fragments that somehow coalesce in a whole (of sorts). The lyrics and the (eventual) song. It needed coaxing, this memory schlock. The flaneur (of Benjamin’s Arcade’s Project) greedily soaking up life passing on the streets, but really magnifying the inner eye naval-wards. Words scratched in ball point pen stake a claim to a moment in time. Like a hammer from the past, come to crash down on the present. A wake-up call. In badly realised cursive. And an exquisite number of question marks. A little tale of saints, lovers and lunatics (incidentally a line stolen, poetically of course, from a train station lost property diary which may or may not have been returned to its owner and their lover).
These are the only words that I have left – And I know that they will never be enough. What became apparent is that that there are many songs that existed that are now forgotten. This little death caused each day. So, unto the breach with the suture, and my great rescue attempt: the minidisc recordings must be revealed.
Nostalgia is a dangerous beast.
So, the foundation of a show was sown – now, will the muscle memory play along? And will the audience?