hemyography
the rest is history
browse
to know more...
hemy_mail.com
(c) hemy 2009
Chapter 1 'the book'
It was an overdue library book stuffed under my arm and it had accompanied me over both land and sea, in fact everywhere I had been so far on this brief but brilliant escape from university life. I would like to tell you that I am currently on my European 'road trip', however, I have to be honest with you right from the outset and admit that there haven't been any cars involved so far, but then I can't very well call it a railway adventure, can I!
As for the book, yes, I know this obviously went well beyond the reasonable terms and conditions of its loan (most likely well defined in the librarians 'everything you wanted to know about bad lenders but were afraid to ask' handbook) and I have to confess that it was not as if I was ever going to return it. Mind you, I still called it that because, well, I just could not commit to calling myself an outright thief! Accidental public enemy of the state? Saboteur of the cohesive community spirit of sharing? Irresponsible quasi-adult come erratic and unreliable muso and artist? Yeah, alright I can live with all of that, after all I've got a healthy bundle of idiosyncrasies and some shortcomings like you wouldn't believe! At least this all sounds like my style, or maybe it's just the ramblings of a somewhat pretentious, at times obnoxious and but more often than not spectacularly self-serving art student who is about to complete his sojourn and head off home to complete his fourth year of university? I don't know, read on, and decide for yourself!
As for the book, yes, I know this obviously went well beyond the reasonable terms and conditions of its loan (most likely well defined in the librarians 'everything you wanted to know about bad lenders but were afraid to ask' handbook) and I have to confess that it was not as if I was ever going to return it. Mind you, I still called it that because, well, I just could not commit to calling myself an outright thief!
Accidental public enemy of the state? Saboteur of the cohesive community spirit of sharing? Irresponsible quasi-adult come erratic and unreliable muso and artist? Yeah, alright I can live with all of that, after all I've got a healthy bundle of idiosyncrasies and some shortcomings like you wouldn't believe! At least this all sounds like my style, or maybe it's just the ramblings of a somewhat pretentious, at times obnoxious and but more often than not spectacularly self-serving art student who is about to complete his sojourn and head off home to complete his fourth year of university? I don't know, read on, and decide for yourself!
The book by the way had one of those thick and heavy laminated covers, you know the sort, a classically defiant, 'against all odds I will survive you' because I 'am' the book, kind of cover. However, the book and it's 'tour of duty' jacket was now well traveled and sadly but a shadow of its former self, broken in, just like the clothes I had on. My faded red ‘Virgin’ T-shirt, which was also on permanent loan from a friend, and a pair of decrepit old washed out black denims, both complete with the odd splash of paint and ink stains. Their shape and colour, after being repeatedly beaten into a renewed state of cleanliness and submission, looked as if they were indeed barely surviving the ordeal. The endless string of the dreaded coin laundry cement mixers (if garments could dream then this was indeed their one recurring nightmare) had finally taken their toll. All the clothes I owned, by the way, were in this condition, they were shrunk, faded and were well impacted upon. Perhaps it was just that I was too lazy to ever care what clothes I wore on what occasions, especially in consideration of what I was about to do in them. But they all had, what you might call affectionately, (if you were me of course), a lived-in look. As if the taskmaster from the school of hard knocks had dealt them each out their own personal kind of traumatic history. I didnt want new clothes, it took time to haphazardly damage these ones, as well as distill a bit of personality and attitude into them in the process as well.
The book by the way had one of those thick and heavy laminated covers, you know the sort, a classically defiant, 'against all odds I will survive you' because I 'am' the book, kind of cover. However, the book and it's 'tour of duty' jacket was now well traveled and sadly but a shadow of its former self, broken in, just like the clothes I had on. My faded red ‘Virgin’ T-shirt, which was also on permanent loan from a friend, and a pair of decrepit old washed out black denims, both complete with the odd splash of paint and ink stains. Their shape and colour, after being repeatedly beaten into a renewed state of cleanliness and submission, looked as if they were indeed barely surviving the ordeal. The endless string of the dreaded coin laundry cement mixers (if garments could dream then this was indeed their one recurring nightmare) had finally taken their toll. All the clothes I owned, by the way, were in this condition, they were shrunk, faded and were well impacted upon.
Perhaps it was just that I was too lazy to ever care what clothes I wore on what occasions, especially in consideration of what I was about to do in them. But they all had, what you might call affectionately, (if you were me of course), a lived-in look. As if the taskmaster from the school of hard knocks had dealt them each out their own personal kind of traumatic history. I didnt want new clothes, it took time to haphazardly damage these ones, as well as distill a bit of personality and attitude into them in the process as well.
When the Phantom got suited up, it didnt change him like the other super hero phonies, it did however make him feel differently about himself. I suppose thats how it works for me, these were my own idiosyncratic identity power up kits, and as far as I was concerned there wasnt a person on the planet who could prize them off my back. All care and no responsibility was sown into my clothes like an ethos wash n wear instruction tag that I was so far compelled to live by. At least as long as I insisted on wearing my suitcase full of these scruffy clapped out favourites.
The book by the way was 'Edie' by Jean Stein, all about Edie Sedgwick, one of the Andy Warhol and Velvet Underground clan, and her fall from lifes functional Graceland. God she was beautiful, it must be a guy thing but part of my own fascination involved some rather sordid fantasies of spending some quality naked time with her.
Especially after seeing Ciao! Manhattan! I'm sure she had all the guys around her at the time in an even greater frenzy. As a person she seemed fragile and manic. There was something intrinsically prolific about her life, spent lost and violently spiraling out of control, buried deep in a pop culture that eventually chewed her up and spat her out.
To me her life was a road accident I just couldn't peel my eyes away from, and her own story seemed to fuel feelings within me that were as close to the velvets dark and dangerous songs and Warhol’s bizarre world of the 'factory' as I was ever going to get (in my own comparatively conservative corner of reality).
The whole Warhol factory thing seemed to be an almost engulfing experience for all who lived it at the time. I can really appreciate Roy Lichtenstein’s quote in the book when he reflected on the lifestyle of Andy Warhol’s compared to his own; "Andy does exactly what I don't do. He was his art. His studio was his art. Edie was a part of his art, and allot of other people. I was an old-fashioned artist compared with him. When I looked at Andy, I looked at him as a tourist would, I guess... with wonderment. How glamorous. How strange."Some of the greatest poets, artists and writers of our time I would (respectfully of course) call a brooding bunch of melancholy bastards, never afraid to plunge themselves 'boots and all' into their own internal world of angst. Without sharing in someone else's danger I feel a little like Lichtenstein did and find it hard to even realize that these extremes exist both inside and around me. It was the contradictions that made Edie and her life exciting; she appeared vulnerable yet bitchy, beautiful yet terrible, flirtatious and ruthless at the same time. Whilst Warhol provided her with explosive and spontaneous busts of surreal super stardom (which may have even provided him with the inspiration for his ‘5 minutes of fame' quotation), she eventually became addicted to, and almost plagued by the crazy world he had invited her into.
The whole Warhol factory thing seemed to be an almost engulfing experience for all who lived it at the time. I can really appreciate Roy Lichtenstein’s quote in the book when he reflected on the lifestyle of Andy Warhol’s compared to his own;
"Andy does exactly what I don't do. He was his art. His studio was his art. Edie was a part of his art, and allot of other people. I was an old-fashioned artist compared with him. When I looked at Andy, I looked at him as a tourist would, I guess... with wonderment. How glamorous. How strange."
Some of the greatest poets, artists and writers of our time I would (respectfully of course) call a brooding bunch of melancholy bastards, never afraid to plunge themselves 'boots and all' into their own internal world of angst. Without sharing in someone else's danger I feel a little like Lichtenstein did and find it hard to even realize that these extremes exist both inside and around me. It was the contradictions that made Edie and her life exciting; she appeared vulnerable yet bitchy, beautiful yet terrible, flirtatious and ruthless at the same time. Whilst Warhol provided her with explosive and spontaneous busts of surreal super stardom (which may have even provided him with the inspiration for his ‘5 minutes of fame' quotation), she eventually became addicted to, and almost plagued by the crazy world he had invited her into.
Even though people like Bob Dylan and Patti Smith looked upon her as Queen of the whole 'Chelsea' scene, to me, as an observer much later on, she was a classically tragic figure who dared to dance on the edge of a precipice, living an exhilarating, but ultimately destructive life. She was a fascinating creature and she attracted her peers and the next generation as well (my own) to herself, all captivated by her brilliantly neurotic life style and circle of equally perverse and famous friends. My own best friend Suzie, felt such an affinity with her, that one evening we were all together she proclaimed to us all that she was Edie's spirit re-incarnated. That was until we did the math later on that night and worked out that Edie was still alive when she was born! Suzie did say that it was a nice experience being Edie while it lasted!
"Hemy, you are off like a carton of milk in the sun!" "What?""So you are listening, where the hell have you been, we've been walking now for about an hour and a half andyou've said jack shit, diddly squat, nada... I am here you know!""Yeah, sorry, I was just thinking about stuff","What stuff""You know, me and my wandering Zen state of mind"I just loved to bait her... "Yeah, cut the crap deep and meaningful wonder boy, realities right here, right now, it case you didn't realize it! Wake up and smell the cab fumes buddy!"She was right, we were in the middle of London, and the air was a tad acrid."Sorry Sandra, it’s not like I'm sick of your company or anything"Maybe I was being a little facetious.“Yeah, right, I'm used to it by now you introspective arsehole, now where the hell are we going, or is this our little real life re-enactment of Picnic at Hanging Rock?"In case you're wondering, yes, Sandra was always this blunt!"I thought we were trying to find the Soho district, are we in it yet?" "How the fuck should I know, bloody hell I 'm starving. Let's get something to eat before I get even more irritated with you!"
"Hemy, you are off like a carton of milk in the sun!"
"What?"
"So you are listening, where the hell have you been,
we've been walking now for about an hour and a half and
you've said jack shit, diddly squat, nada... I am here
you know!"
"Yeah, sorry, I was just thinking about stuff",
"What stuff"
"You know, me and my wandering Zen state of mind"
I just loved to bait her...
"Yeah, cut the crap deep and meaningful wonder boy, realities right here, right now, it case you didn't realize it! Wake up and smell the cab fumes buddy!"
She was right, we were in the middle of London, and the air was a tad acrid.
"Sorry Sandra, it’s not like I'm sick of your company or anything"
Maybe I was being a little facetious.
“Yeah, right, I'm used to it by now you introspective arsehole, now where the hell are we going, or is this our little real life re-enactment of Picnic at Hanging Rock?"
In case you're wondering, yes, Sandra was always this blunt!
"I thought we were trying to find the Soho district, are we in it yet?"
"How the fuck should I know, bloody hell I 'm starving. Let's get something to eat before I get even more irritated with you!"
It sounded like a good idea and profanities aside at least I could always rely on Sandra's honesty, she was as blunt as they come but I never had to second guess what she wanted, or didn't want for that matter!We ducked into a dingy street cafe, the kind you only even become aware of it's existence when you are in dire need of sustenance and yes, there was no shortage of these establishments, in London anyway. This one in particular must be monopolizing on unsuspecting tourists, such as us, trapped in 'hunger induced, less than rational' states. They are the kind of premises that the health department officials are too scared to visit, and I'm sure they have been haphazardly spawned into existence purely for the purpose of leeching off those of us who have not had the foresight to pack their lunches, and find themselves in unfamiliar surroundings, perilously close to the verge of collapse.
It sounded like a good idea and profanities aside at least I could always rely on Sandra's honesty, she was as blunt as they come but I never had to second guess what she wanted, or didn't want for that matter!
We ducked into a dingy street cafe, the kind you only even become aware of it's existence when you are in dire need of sustenance and yes, there was no shortage of these establishments, in London anyway. This one in particular must be monopolizing on unsuspecting tourists, such as us, trapped in 'hunger induced, less than rational' states. They are the kind of premises that the health department officials are too scared to visit, and I'm sure they have been haphazardly spawned into existence purely for the purpose of leeching off those of us who have not had the foresight to pack their lunches, and find themselves in unfamiliar surroundings, perilously close to the verge of collapse.
I am also perplexed as to what primitive instinct it is that even allows us to entertain the idea of entering such a premises .Would anyone care to explain to me why is it that the greasiest and worst food imaginable suddenly becomes the most appealing when you are famished. Is it survivals instincts sick game of reverse
psychology? To me it is like an intoxicatingly induced 'one night stand', as soon as the experience hits your lips you are regretting it already. I could almost taste the food poisoning and whilst encumbered with an overly vivid and excitable imagination, I really did believe that the Bobbies would be plucking my bloated body out of the Thames, at this time tomorrow. The autopsy would read, 'Cause of death: A suspect imitation chicken curry purchased from the 'Bollywood Curry Palace' in Soho snuffed out the life of this careless, stupid tourist'. "I feel a bit strange, I wish we had waited to eat, that place was not good at all!""Yes, but you were the one who couldn’t wait, bitterly complaining ofbeing famished" I reminded Sandra in the most smartarse kind of way possible
psychology? To me it is like an intoxicatingly induced 'one night stand', as soon as the experience hits your lips you are regretting it already. I could almost taste the food poisoning and whilst encumbered with an overly vivid and excitable imagination, I really did believe that the Bobbies would be plucking my bloated body out of the Thames, at this time tomorrow. The autopsy would read, 'Cause of death: A suspect imitation chicken curry purchased from the 'Bollywood Curry Palace' in Soho snuffed out the life of this careless, stupid tourist'.
"I feel a bit strange, I wish we had waited to eat, that place was not good at all!"
"Yes, but you were the one who couldn’t wait, bitterly complaining ofbeing famished"
I reminded Sandra in the most smartarse kind of way possible
"Anyway, I'm sure the food's ok!" Blinding optimism and blatant lies aside, the truth was I just wanted to lie down myself, and believe the lie too! How pathetic we were, two unseasoned, green (now literally) tourists sadly lacking in better judgment. It was time to pay for this cocktail of naivety mixed with that dangerous a dash of ill-founded confidence! Sandra found us a little spot, (city engineers in the town planning division of the council would fondly refer to it as an urban green belt), that is to say it was a bit of grass with a tree in the middle surrounded by concrete. We had a good lie down and after and hour we both started to feel a little better.“Haven’t you finished that book yet?“Well sort of, I'm re-reading sections of it". “What is it with you and that book?"“Well, it's the Warhol thing, it's kind of gives me the permission I need to hold onto my own edgy kind of perspective". "Yeah, right Sophocles!" Sandra had an uncannily simplistic way of telling you that you were full of crap."Well then, it gives me an excuse to listen to the Velvet Underground"
"Anyway, I'm sure the food's ok!"
Blinding optimism and blatant lies aside, the truth was I just wanted to lie down myself, and believe the lie too!
How pathetic we were, two unseasoned, green (now literally) tourists sadly lacking in better judgment. It was time to pay for this cocktail of naivety mixed with that dangerous a dash of ill-founded confidence! Sandra found us a little spot, (city engineers in the town planning division of the council would fondly refer to it as an urban green belt), that is to say it was a bit of grass with a tree in the middle surrounded by concrete. We had a good lie down and after and hour we both started to feel a little better.
“Haven’t you finished that book yet?
“Well sort of, I'm re-reading sections of it".
“What is it with you and that book?"
“Well, it's the Warhol thing, it's kind of gives me the permission I need to hold onto my own edgy kind of perspective".
"Yeah, right Sophocles!"
Sandra had an uncannily simplistic way of telling you that you were full of crap.
"Well then, it gives me an excuse to listen to the Velvet Underground"
At this point, I had given up any attempt to seriously defend my position. Sandra laughed, "You're just petrified of being M.O.R (middle of the road) aren’t you? You Second Gen 60's child come beatnik hippy artist!"We both had a good laugh."This is a life or death matter for Gods sake, I have too much to loose if I get off the proverbial last train home and I'm left at the 'dags only' platform for the rest of my life. What if I just forget how it is I feel right now and never remember how to feel this way again? You know there is probably a real syndrome out there or something like that, you can develop called 'attitude amnesia!" "Attitude amnesia my arse!"Sandra jumped on top of me, and tried to pin my arms down, we wrestled for a while, and then both collapsed, sprawledout, bellies up to the sky, on our little piece of urban greenery. In retrospect it probably wasn't such a good idea considering the fragile state our bellies were still in.
At this point, I had given up any attempt to seriously defend my position.
Sandra laughed,
"You're just petrified of being M.O.R (middle of the road) aren’t you? You Second Gen 60's child come beatnik hippy artist!"
We both had a good laugh.
"This is a life or death matter for Gods sake, I have too much to loose if I get off the proverbial last train home and I'm left at the 'dags only' platform for the rest of my life. What if I just forget how it is I feel right now and never remember how to feel this way again? You know there is probably a real syndrome out there or something like that, you can develop called 'attitude amnesia!"
"Attitude amnesia my arse!"
Sandra jumped on top of me,
and tried to pin my arms down,
we wrestled for a while, and
then both collapsed, sprawled
out, bellies up to the sky, on
our little piece of urban
greenery. In retrospect it
probably wasn't such a good idea considering the fragile state our bellies were still in.
here it is!
It's wasn’t so much that I was afraid of waking up tomorrow and shedding my reptilian like alternative skin, it's just that I didn't want to wake up twenty years from now, (in what would probably seem like a cup of instant coffee during an extremely long commercial television ad break), and find myself drowning in suburban quick sand. Complete with my weekly newspaper lift out supplement 'Home Handyman hints for you! Yes YOU, the absolutely bored stupid, don't know what to do yourself except dumb d.i.y guy projects!' Oh God only forbid waking up to a new lawn mower for Christmas! Chances are I reckon just about any one of us could be struck down by the conformist virus at any time and the rest of us are probably at risk of quietly and insipidly drifting off into a sort of a mind numbing cruise control. "You wear me out with your philosophical crusades Hemy. You can't stay an ‘angry young insect’ forever you know!" "Why not!" I blurted back at her, with the force of an impetuous schoolboy, spitting out his chewing gum before class."At least until I'm an eccentric, quirky old fart, and I don't know any better!"
It's wasn’t so much that I was afraid of waking up tomorrow and shedding my reptilian like alternative skin, it's just that I didn't want to wake up twenty years from now, (in what would probably seem like a cup of instant coffee during an extremely long commercial television ad break), and find myself drowning in suburban quick sand. Complete with my weekly newspaper lift out supplement 'Home Handyman hints for you! Yes YOU, the absolutely bored stupid, don't know what to do yourself except dumb d.i.y guy projects!' Oh God only forbid waking up to a new lawn mower for Christmas! Chances are I reckon just about any one of us could be struck down by the conformist virus at any time and the rest of us are probably at risk of quietly and insipidly drifting off into a sort of a mind numbing cruise control.
"You wear me out with your
philosophical crusades Hemy.
You can't stay an ‘angry young
insect’ forever you know!"
"Why not!"
I blurted back at her, with the
force of an impetuous schoolboy,
spitting out his chewing gum
before class.
"At least until I'm an eccentric,
quirky old fart, and I don't know any better!"
The way I see things, it's all about attitude. I can't speak on your behalf (I don't even know you) but I'd personally like to remain out of that conventional box for as long as possible. . . at least until they carry me out in one. What makes us push for the edge rather than settle for the middle, who knows? Maybe we should ask Frank Zappa, that crazy son of a bitch? Or go for a walk on the wild side with Lou Reed, tell me is he really such a bastard? What about doing some damage with Neil Young? A little soul mining with Matt Johnson or experience some exquisite pain with Jeff Buckley? . . . hell it’s actually pretty god damn humbling to think about all those dudes truly killing it with their own individual style. Of course the music highway is literally littered with all of the crap pop culture constantly spews up all over us but after you wash it all off, well. . . its those personal heroes of mine with all that eccentricity and rare talent that keeps me honest. Honest to what? All bullshit aside, because I know I AM starting to crap on here (sorry about that), what I’m getting at is. . . well, don’t you feel the pressure sometimes to tow the line, tone it down, get on the straight and narrow? My answer to that pretty simple question my friend is . . . don’t! Be it stupidity or ignorance, all I know is that it’s a god damn fine thing to stick to your guns and do what you do, no matter what!
The way I see things, it's all about attitude. I can't speak on your behalf (I don't even know you) but I'd personally like to remain out of that conventional box for as long as possible. . . at least until they carry me out in one. What makes us push for the edge rather than settle for the middle, who knows? Maybe we should ask Frank Zappa, that crazy son of a bitch? Or go for a walk on the wild side with Lou Reed, tell me is he really such a bastard? What about doing some damage with Neil Young? A little soul mining with Matt Johnson or experience some exquisite pain with Jeff Buckley? . . . hell it’s actually pretty god damn humbling to think about all those dudes truly killing it with their own individual style. Of course the music highway is literally littered with all of the crap pop culture constantly spews up all over us but after you wash it all off, well. . . its those personal heroes of mine with all that eccentricity and rare talent that keeps me honest.
Honest to what? All bullshit aside, because I know I AM starting to crap on here (sorry about that), what I’m getting at is. . . well, don’t you feel the pressure sometimes to tow the line, tone it down, get on the straight and narrow? My answer to that pretty simple question my friend is . . . don’t! Be it stupidity or ignorance, all I know is that it’s a god damn fine thing to stick to your guns and do what you do, no matter what!
Shit I’ve lived through some real roadkill experiences in my time because I’ve refused to ‘'get with the program’ but I still kind of reckon that one day I’m going to get it right? Fingers crossed anyway! Phew, yeah I hear ya loud and clear, heavy ramblings man. . . but now I feel even more determined than ever to keep the beatnik spirit alive. Where is Jack Kerouac when you need him? I need a good dose of some bohemian culture, and I need it fast! "Let’s go hang out at poet’s corner in Hyde Park for a while?"Sandra gave me her full-on 'are you serious' look“Oh shut up and help me find the nightclub Elvis Costello is playing at tonight, so we can come back later on and do some bum grooving. Are you into that Mr. Cool, is the big E left of centre enough for you?"Yeah, yeah, you're wearing me out with your witty repartee!"
Shit I’ve lived through some real roadkill experiences in my time because I’ve refused to ‘'get with the program’ but I still kind of reckon that one day I’m going to get it right? Fingers crossed anyway! Phew, yeah I hear ya loud and clear, heavy ramblings man. . . but now I feel even more determined than ever to keep the beatnik spirit alive. Where is Jack Kerouac when you need him? I need a good dose of some bohemian culture, and I need it fast!
"Let’s go hang out at poet’s corner in Hyde Park for a while?"
Sandra gave me her full-on 'are you serious' look
“Oh shut up and help me find the nightclub Elvis Costello is playing at tonight, so we can come back later on and do some bum grooving. Are you into that Mr. Cool, is the big E left of centre enough for you?
"Yeah, yeah, you're wearing me out with your witty repartee!"
I left it at that, after all it was all a bit too much to consider and banter about on what was really a rather non-obsequious Tuesday afternoon. We found the club then headed off to the closest tube station. I settled into my small space on the carriage and slipped into passenger mode, we both did and chilled out to the train’s hypnotic passive vibe. Traveling while reading this book, by the way, and taking the time to submerge myself in it and my own thoughts, sort of put a kind of slant on every experience I have had and every person and place I have encountered so far on this trip. The book had effectively become my crazy ‘rose coloured glasses’ and to tell you the truth I loved wearing them. Here I was sitting on the London Tube, glazed eyes and to an observer I was in a partial trance just listening to my music, reading my book. If you were another passenger on the train you wouldn’t know it but I am actually at this very moment in the process of making the world my own, sort of painting it in, sculpting it, overlapping it with a touch, taste and smell all of my own imagination and making. Who cares if it's different from everyone else's reality, the important thing is that i've made it my own and at this commitment and responsibility free point in my life I'm afforded the luxury of doing it and getting away with it.
I left it at that, after all it was all a bit too much to consider and banter about on what was really a rather non-obsequious Tuesday afternoon. We found the club then headed off to the closest tube station. I settled into my small space on the carriage and slipped into passenger mode, we both did and chilled out to the train’s hypnotic passive vibe. Traveling while reading this book, by the way, and taking the time to submerge myself in it and my own thoughts, sort of put a kind of slant on every experience I have had and every person and place I have encountered so far on this trip. The book had effectively become my crazy ‘rose coloured glasses’ and to tell you the truth I loved wearing them.
Here I was sitting on the London Tube, glazed eyes and to an observer I was in a partial trance just listening to my music, reading my book. If you were another passenger on the train you wouldn’t know it but I am actually at this very moment in the process of making the world my own, sort of painting it in, sculpting it, overlapping it with a touch, taste and smell all of my own imagination and making. Who cares if it's different from everyone else's reality, the important thing is that i've made it my own and at this commitment and responsibility free point in my life I'm afforded the luxury of doing it and getting away with it.
I'm doing it, mind you, to a soundtrack, what sounds like to the rest of the passengers on the train, a faintly audible distorted blur of The SugarCubes, not that they would have had the faintest idea who that obscure Icelandic band is mind you, especially as they were before Bjork went solo. I’m just a guy on a train, traveling with a friend, on what had turned out to be, well above the cities under-belly I was currently rocketing along in, anincongruously sunny day in this edgy and brilliant, dirty town. To be continued . . .
I'm doing it, mind you, to a soundtrack, what sounds like to the rest of the passengers on the train, a faintly audible distorted blur of The SugarCubes, not that they would have had the
faintest idea who that obscure
Icelandic band is mind
you, especially as they
were before Bjork went
solo. I’m just a guy on
a train, traveling with
a friend, on what had
turned out to be, well
above the cities under-
belly I was currently
rocketing along in, an
incongruously sunny
day in this edgy and
brilliant, dirty town.
To be continued . . .
vinylshuffle.wordpress.com
widget 4 your comments...
hemymusic website coming soon
like to contact hemy?
nameemailsubjectmessage
name
email
subject
message
![470px-the_scream[1]](http://static.wix.com/media/1ebea32c9152490e0ddf4f8fa4ea64d8.wix_mp)
