Prose

Every now and then someone descends into The Forum with a head full of imaginary rockets and emotional ecstasy.

His soul catches fire, his heart is lit with joy, his eyes cast up to the stars, his perception charges forward with visions of grandeur.  He’s just one more song away from the sky and oblivion.

A blue field stretches out before him now in sonic promise; that one moment that exists now and also 30 seconds into the future – one long moment holding eternity inside a glass globe; drums and guitar pummeling against the glass so hard while curiously offering solace and tranquility inside a tidal wave.

He’s never experienced a holy moment like this in all his life.  No girl, no drugs, no sermon, no other band, nothing has brought him to his knees in this way and he drinks up every movement with the universe rushing through his veins.

Now he’s in the Forum singing the praises of this or that album.  It might be Machina, it might be Siamese Dream, but it’s always the same; the breathless orgasmic flow that escapes his description.  But he’s damned determined to at least try and pin down that muse in so many words.

This is a world of atmospheric glory, shrieking guitar solos and guitar feedback straight from memories of being inside the womb.

They started in the shadows of moonlight and clouds passing over hills.  Before the soaring rockets and unbelievable power, they began humbly with songs like “Snap (if I could)”, these little hints of genius poked up through the desert sands, wide open in a field of endless potential.

The landscape spread out before them in pillars of light – stars shining down like The Cure, Joy Division, all alight over the pyramids here and there.  But this new machine, this seed of unexplored glory crept over the earth taking grains of sands, and sometimes whole bricks, from everywhere to form a new composite, a brand new sound and they prepared to launch from the abyss of nowhere into the streams and rivers of everywhere.

And I smiled as I read this chap’s description of his ecstasy inside Machina while I walked in circles in my living room remembering Siamese Dream and wondering how I could ever forget, my heart full of the same shining joy, the green rolling hills and sunshine, the razor’s bitter edge mixing tenderly with white picket fences, innocence and despair, unbelievable power and unimaginable vulnerability like a nerve exposed but comforted in the next moment by a band-aid of sweet refrain.

And I remember summer nights of youth half buried in the ground, boxed set painted like a black and white psychedelic target and so many exotic sounds, euphoria of the new.

Boys passed by on bicycles in dappled shadows beneath the trees and the sound went on, and the night went on lit by candles, flame stretching to the ceiling amid a ritual sound; the buzz brigade and moonlight ballads.

The space stretched out around my heart and every breath was promise mixed with excitement and a strange sense of peace.  And when the summer finally passed into autumn, we were greeted with a whole new dimension suitable for winter’s invitation – blankets of new crunch fuzz and gothy beats.

And here we are now and there we were then and it’s all the same, but I’ll never forget those first picket fences and rolling green hills and soaring everythings.

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