… Previously

 

4 February 2012

 

The Arcade Fire

Bands create their own mythologies and despite all the image of the discontented kids from the ‘burbs this lot were born museos from museo backgrounds. Does that make them fakes? Relatively, I suppose so, but no more so than all those Brit School brats I end up turning off. The fact remains that they are rather good, try different stuff and do a good live set. There also seem to be far too many for the act to be viable! My favourite eight:

Neighbourhood 1 (Tunnels)
Neighbourhood 2 (Laika)
Rebellion (Lies)
From “Funeral”

No Cars Go
My Body is a Cage
From “Neon Bible”

Modern Man
Half Light II (no celebration)
Sprawl II (mountains beyond mountains)
from “The Suburbs”

 

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“OK, so you had a point.”

Sue came into the bedroom bearing coffee and croissants as promised.

“This is rather lovely.”

“Well, it’s Sunday and I think we are about to make a decision of significance.”

“We are?”

“We are indeed. But that will wait for now. What about it?”

“What about what?”

“The amends dickbrain!”

“Oh. Yes. Much better than my effort.”

“Think ‘people’, Marty. It’s all very well digging through his scribblings, but if you are going to get to the bottom of what’s going on, sorry, I mean what went on, then you are going to need to find the people who knew Pete and who saw him in the years you didn’t.”

“What if they’re gangsters?”

“Oh come on, Pete?”

“I’m joking!”

“I suppose you are. … But then, why not? That’s one way to end up with half a million quid in brown envelopes.”

“Kalashnikovs in guitar cases.”

“Something like that.”

“Um …”

“But assuming, just for now that we aren’t in some far-fetched movie, you really have to follow the people and the only way you can follow the people is to find the people. But you can’t find the people right now because you don’t want to go to the house. And if you don’t go to the house you don’t get into the computer and if you don’t get into the computer you don’t get anything, nada, nowt, fuck all. So you have to wait till you are ready to go which means there are only two things you can do in the meantime. The first is to read that book of lists and … “

“But I don’t understand it.”

“Well stop fuckin’ moping and get some fuckin’ help.”

Sue wasn’t quick to anger, but her eyes were filling with tears and her voice spoke eloquently of her desperation. She turned from me, her face burrowing into the pillow as the sobs came and tremors took her shoulders. Grief is a selfish emotion. It is self- absorbing, an all-consuming indulgence that we have to allow itself. Grief is not for the dead, it is for the dying. That is, for all of us who live, but most specifically for our dying selves. Grief locks out the people around you to whom we are closest. The keys are our own fear and the guilt of living, of enjoying what our loved one can never again enjoy. The Godless knowledge that they have not gone to a better place. I had locked Sue out, I had locked everyone out, even myself.

“You’re mad at me. I’m so sorry.”

Sue didn’t reply.

“Come on Sue.”

“Come on what?”

It was a long time since Sue had been upset, we had cried together on the way back in the cop car from London, we had cried together before during and after the funeral, together, but since the day after then I had locked her out. There are days I can’t remember still. 

“Come on, please. I love you Suzanne.”

“And I love you, stupid. … And that’s the point.”

She talked between sobs and sniffs.

“But you’ve got to listen to me right now.”

“OK. I’m really listening.”

“No smartarse shit.”

“No.”

“It goes like this. You read his book. No, we read the book. We rediscover him though what he was doing. We look to see if there is anything in the book, or the lists, that gives a clue to where his head was at. Maybe we look at the back, or just look through, look at the handwriting, whatever, we just see. If we don’t understand it we’ll get some help. You’re a researcher – so research. Yes? Same rules as science. OK?

“OK.”

“And this is the other thing. You’re going back to work.”

“Oh.”

“No, ‘oh’ about it, you’re going. It’s time, and after a few weeks we are going away for a little while, don’t know when or what we are doing, but we’ll go somewhere.”

“When?”

“Oh, I’ve not thought that through as yet.”

“No, work, when?”

“Oh, sorry, tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, as in the day after today, one more sleep. Tomorrow.”

“OK.”

“Right. Settled then.”

“Good, now stop moping and fuck me.”

 

to be continued …

 

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