Kind of true, I guess, despite so much angst the other way but yes
War On Drugs is just music for people who lke Dylan and Springsteen but hate the politics or can’t deal with the politcs and so they get a facsimile and celebrate it. And the name, har har, because, har, ‘the war on drugs, Nixon, viet – erm, yeah, har ! War on drugs.’.
I once worked in an office in NYC and when I cranked open the courtyard/internal window, and then leaned out a little to get a breeze, the head of Editorial came in very quickly to check I wasn’t going to kill myself. NYC everyone. He previously hadn’t cared much about anything I was doing but there was a trigger.
Well done, society. Well done, postmodernism !
The red light in front of you
Is in front of you
You have no choice
In this matter
have been perusing soundcloud and bandcamp and immersing myself in the strange world of half-drowned nostalgia that is vaporware, this odd genre that exists in liminal spaces and mines 80s and 90s tracks, distorting them out of all recognition. bandpass filters and chopped and screwed beats, limited edition cassette only issues and a sense that the (mainly) Western world of postmodern culture is collapsing into itself. it is unable to sustain its structure, or centre (and of course we go back to the totemic ‘the centre cannot hold’). maybe the centre never could hold. maybe there never was a centre. that is, possibly, what vaporware suggests. more to come on this, i presume, unless i get back into Depeche Mode and forget this whole sorry incident called the ‘2010s.’
Its a cruelty, I think. A savage and ironic punishment for a vain and fragile species. I hate it but can’t leave for various personal and professional reasons. I continue on, knowing i am ingesting a toxic substance.
Do I need Welsh dollars? My passport? Cardiff is a primal scream. I see a woman walk into the Prince of Wales pub wearing a see through skirt and a thong. I see many, many drug addicts and vagrants making their way up and down High St. In Kong, the mead is eight quid a bottle and we’re in any Europe capital. But the day sees morning drinkers in the Spoons downing pints like only the UK can muster: tepid ale washing down a microwaved full English. This is the Great Western and it has that familiar Witherspoons atmosphere. The ghost of Tim Martin beating an old man around the face with a wet shoe.
Bute Park offers a beauty and respite that’s outstanding and the architecture of the University is gorgeous. I spot this neo-classical beast.
And shortly afterwards I’m here;
But I can’t make my feelings coalesced: the Taff runs as clear as glass at this point but I’m all over the place, sewn to this phone and discombobulated. There’s a thread but it’s torn. I head back to the hotel and pick up a free newspaper.
What is this? It is cash only, “no cards, only cash,” and it is the faded splendor of the Hotel Atlantic (Kempinski) and the old girl is having a facelift. Beneath the marble title is a facsimile of marble. I suppose it’s progress. We walk and nearly get side-swiped at every road crossing by bicycles and there are maybe one, two beers on tap. It’s the Reeperbahn, served by a surly hipster, and then the u-bahn and maybe a bahn mi and I feel like I’m in my very own bain marie. I’m tired and I should be asleep. A ham berk taking pictures of cars and losing precious moments.
And Sweden, it’s pine and it’s blonde and its expensive and there are rules and it is very hard to buy a bottle of beer to drink in the hotel and