Cliffe, 5am. I am dragged from sleep by the
sound of loud music, then shouting. For a while, the words
enter my dreams.
‘Fucking turn the music down.’
And: ‘Turn the fucking music down.’
And: ‘Can’t you just turn it down, you fucking…’
The guy who is playing the music shouts back, although his
reply is less coherent, less focused. There is a chance, I
realise, that his thought processes have been blunted by a
night on the tiles.
Fully awake, I look out of my window. The music-player, whose
window is open, occupies the flat above Eden, the holistic
massage place. He is playing a version - a long version,
it sounds like - of Jonathan Richman’s Roadrunner.
More shouting from both sides. It strikes me that, while the
complainant has a clear point to make, the guy playing the
music has nothing much to say. After all, what can he say?
He must be in a sorry state. I once read an essay which made
the point that, for some people, rock music can only be fully
experienced if it’s loud enough to disturb people other
than the listener.
I lie back down on my bed. Things are coming to a head. It
occurs to me to go to the window again and catch the action.
In the morning, walking towards Bill’s, I look up, and,
sure enough, the window above Eden is broken.
I must have fallen asleep at the crucial moment. Damn.
PS: Who are you, music guy? What’s your game?