Pregled posta

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‘He was a f.cking genius. Utter f,cking genius.’

His voice hit me, a peak in the silence. I shuffled slightly, stretching my legs out in the sand. Feeling the reeds at the edge of the dunes rise and prick at my back. I wasn’t up for conversation but I could feel in his tone he was restless, lonely in all this calm.

‘Who was?’ I replied.

‘Lennon. John Lennon. Utter f.cking genius.’

The sun pawed at my closed eyes, sending dazzling spots and flares spinning into the dark behind my eyes. The late evening air was cooling by the minute as the sun dipped towards the sea. Unseen birds called out high above us, seagulls with their common braying, Oyster Catchers with their altogether more refined, melancholy
song.

‘You could say that, I guess. Plenty of good tunes.’ I stopped, could feel him waiting for more, a hook to come back in on. ‘I’ve never listened to a Beatles album though. Not the whole way through. It’s not that I don’t like them it’s just, I don’t know. They’re like nursery rhymes or something. Too sweet, too nice.’ I stopped talking, breathed deeply.
Trying to call a halt to all his commotion, trying to sink back into the coming dusk.

Instead he poured back into the silence.

‘Fuck the Beatles man, that’s rock music for the under-age. A mean, don’t get me wrong, some cracking tunes and revolutionary and all that but fuck man, McCartney is a right twat. Too nice to rock out, and don’t even give me Helter Skelter. Lennon wasn’t nice, Lennon was real: Lennon knew life.’

There was a pause. I heard the scratching of a stick as he dragged it along the sand. Etching out little messages to himself. Disturbing the little mites and bugs that scurried deeper underground, away from what was left of the sun.

‘There was all the stuff with his Mum for one.’ He started up again. ‘And at school, totally out there, before them all. He knew back then, he knew what it was all about. No fucking conforming for him.’

I rubbed my shoulders slowly against the reeds and the sand: the scratching through my shirt sharp and instant. The sun was dipping lower: I could feel it behind my closed eyes. The sounds of the waves slapping gently against the wet sand, receeding with the tide further and further down the beach. Fewer and fewer people worked their way along this isolated patch of coast. A few hours ago it had been all Frisbee and dog calls. A couple of hardy swimmers puffing with the cold, a few young lovers pretending this place was their special place. But now, not it was all over, this day was ending around us quietly. Without effort or disturbance.

‘And in Hamburg, woah man, he tore it up then. Plugged every German girl he could, took it all in and spat it out. Fucking Rock and Roll so he was. People don’t think that about him but he was, once, total Rock and Roll.’

He paused again and the sounds of the seashore seeped back in: calm. If it wasn’t for him, it would all be calm. It was never calm with him though. Always something. Always agitated and jittery about something. He was like that.
‘Never really been a fan’ I offered ‘Some good solo songs, if that’s what you’re on about, you know Stand By Me, Imagine, Jealous Guy. Nothing that blows my mind though. I’m more of a Jazz man to be honest.’

‘Jazz! Fuck off man, that’s for fucking polo necks and poofs. Fucking trumpets parping out shite while the drummer has a fit in the background. Fucking jazz, what’s so special about jazz? Who did jazz ever speak to? Eh?’

The last degrees of heat were ebbing away. My exposed feet burrowed deeper into the warm sand for shelter. I stretched slightly, pulling at my muscles, sliding them back into a more comfortable position. Some jazz now would have been good. ‘A Kind of Blue’ or maybe ‘In a Silent Way’, let my mind latch onto the scattering of the drums or the drift of the trumpet, feel it pull loops and turns in my mind. It takes time away, makes you feel something bigger than melody. Instead I had him buzzing around me. Always buzzing, always looking for a fix of excitement or confrontation. He was always buzzing about something.

‘I mean, fuck, Jazz.’ He paused for a second, clearly disgusted. ‘Nah man, Lennon is where it’s at. Fucking think about it, think about here right and think about what he said ‘no hell below us, above us only sky’ . Shit man, that’s now, that’s right fucking now. ‘Above us only sky’. Fuck man, look above us, we’re out there, we’re doing it, we’re living the dream. We’ve no possessions, no nothing man, we’re just out here under the sky man. We’re living it.’

‘We drove here.’

‘f*ck off man, don’t be so f*cking literal. We’re not minted, we’re not rich, we’ve got it all here, right now. Above us is only the sky, no hell below us man, no hell at all.’
I always remember this bit so clearly. I remember him saying that last line. I think about what came after and I think about what he said, what he thought at that moment. He was young in a bad way, then, but he was only that: you

‘He was a f.cking genius. Utter f,cking genius.’

His voice hit me, a peak in the silence. I shuffled slightly, stretching my legs out in the sand. Feeling the reeds at the edge of the dunes rise and prick at my back. I wasn’t up for conversation but I could feel in his tone he was restless, lonely in all this calm.

‘Who was?’ I replied.

‘Lennon. John Lennon. Utter f.cking genius.’

The sun pawed at my closed eyes, sending dazzling spots and flares spinning into the dark behind my eyes. The late evening air was cooling by the minute as the sun dipped towards the sea. Unseen birds called out high above us, seagulls with their common braying, Oyster Catchers with their altogether more refined, melancholy song.

‘You could say that, I guess. Plenty of good tunes.’ I stopped, could feel him waiting for more, a hook to come back in on. ‘I’ve never listened to a Beatles album though. Not the whole way through. It’s not that I don’t like them it’s just, I don’t know. They’re like nursery rhymes or something. Too sweet, too nice.’ I stopped talking, breathed deeply. Trying to call a halt to all his commotion, trying to sink back into the coming dusk.

Instead he poured back into the silence.

‘Fuck the Beatles man, that’s rock music for the under-age. A mean, don’t get me wrong, some cracking tunes and revolutionary and all that but fuck man, McCartney is a right twat. Too nice to rock out, and don’t even give me Helter Skelter. Lennon wasn’t nice, Lennon was real: Lennon knew life.’

There was a pause. I heard the scratching of a stick as he dragged it along the sand. Etching out little messages to himself. Disturbing the little mites and bugs that scurried deeper underground, away from what was left of the sun.

‘There was all the stuff with his Mum for one.’ He started up again. ‘And at school, totally out there, before them all. He knew back then, he knew what it was all about. No fucking conforming for him.’

I rubbed my shoulders slowly against the reeds and the sand: the scratching through my shirt sharp and instant. The sun was dipping lower: I could feel it behind my closed eyes. The sounds of the waves slapping gently against the wet sand, receeding with the tide further and further down the beach. Fewer and fewer people worked their way along this isolated patch of coast. A few hours ago it had been all Frisbee and dog calls. A couple of hardy swimmers puffing with the cold, a few young lovers pretending this place was their special place. But now, not it was all over, this day was ending around us quietly. Without effort or disturbance.

‘And in Hamburg, woah man, he tore it up then. Plugged every German girl he could, took it all in and spat it out. Fucking Rock and Roll so he was. People don’t think that about him but he was, once, total Rock and Roll.’

He paused again and the sounds of the seashore seeped back in: calm. If it wasn’t for him, it would all be calm. It was never calm with him though. Always something. Always agitated and jittery about something. He was like that.

‘Never really been a fan’ I offered ‘Some good solo songs, if that’s what you’re on about, you know Stand By Me, Imagine, Jealous Guy. Nothing that blows my mind though. I’m more of a Jazz man to be honest.’

‘Jazz! Fuck off man, that’s for fucking polo necks and poofs. Fucking trumpets parping out shite while the drummer has a fit in the background. Fucking jazz, what’s so special about jazz? Who did jazz ever speak to? Eh?’

The last degrees of heat were ebbing away. My exposed feet burrowed deeper into the warm sand for shelter. I stretched slightly, pulling at my muscles, sliding them back into a more comfortable position. Some jazz now would have been good. ‘A Kind of Blue’ or maybe ‘In a Silent Way’, let my mind latch onto the scattering of the drums or the drift of the trumpet, feel it pull loops and turns in my mind. It takes time away, makes you feel something bigger than melody. Instead I had him buzzing around me. Always buzzing, always looking for a fix of excitement or confrontation. He was always buzzing about something.

‘I mean, fuck, Jazz.’ He paused for a second, clearly disgusted. ‘Nah man, Lennon is where it’s at. Fucking think about it, think about here right and think about what he said ‘no hell below us, above us only sky’ . Shit man, that’s now, that’s right fucking now. ‘Above us only sky’. Fuck man, look above us, we’re out there, we’re doing it, we’re living the dream. We’ve no possessions, no nothing man, we’re just out here under the sky man. We’re living it.’

‘We drove here.’

‘f*ck off man, don’t be so f*cking literal. We’re not minted, we’re not rich, we’ve got it all here, right now. Above us is only the sky, no hell below us man, no hell at all.’

I always remember this bit so clearly. I remember him saying that last line. I think about what came after and I think about what he said, what he thought at that moment. He was young in a bad way, then, but he was only that: you