Monday, 23 March 2009


Son lugged his guitar and equipment up the stairs and into the main hall. A few stoic, glum folks sat about tending to pints of lager or ale.
Son plugged in his guitar causing a brief bzzzzz.
Then he attended to his own pint of beer, guzzling thirstily, feeling his tensions dissolve.
He set the glass down and then began very gently, very quietly, very carefully massaging the guitar strings with callused fingers.
He could smell perfume and smoke, a curious blend of acrid and saccharine cloys.
What he was trying to do: he was trying to coax otherwordly strains of abstraction out of the instrument.
It was difficult and it was easy. It involved not contemplating the future or the past.
What a strange smell. A dog stood beside its owner who was sat at the bar. Look at the dog swishing its tail, Son thought. The owner was filling in a crossword, a bottle of beer and a wee nip of whisky sat before him.
Sometimes when Son drank such beverages he became obscenely resentful and belligerent. Other times he became serene, compassionate even. It all depended on his disposition prior to consumption of said beverages.
Son stepped on a distortion pedal. Gales of banshee feedback poured from his amp. He turned his guitar this way and that to facilitate tonal modulation of this feedback. He was pleased with how it sounded.

After 20 or so minutes of faffing about, creating various abstractions, Son switched off his amp, his performance complete.
He stepped off the short stage and cuddled various bemused audience members in a fashion that could only be described as awkward.
He felt like a hippie or a homosexual. In reality, he was neither of these things. He was merely a young African American trying to maintain an obscure tradition as revealed to him in dream codex.
But these dreams were so ancient he forgot quite what he was trying to do. Still, he retained a vague sense of purpose and aesthetics which had carried him through, delivered him satisfaction.
Now he felt the need to deliver his penis into a girl's hole; in other words, he was horny. A regrettable state of affairs when he lacked a moist woman hole to insert his wanger into.

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