I cannot recall if I have posted this song before, although I haven’t posted anything at all here since last year so I suppose I can extend some form of forgiveness to myself. I am not even sure how my previous musical posts lay formatted, and I shan’t look; there is a comfortable shagginess in unmitigated instability, flailing as I am between music, the internet, and the 12 pack of Creme Eggs balancing on the arm of the sofa.
Soon there will be 11 Creme Eggs.
I have selected this song not for its ability to satiate me enough for death to spontaneously arrive and eat me, as Lie (Lay? Laaiiigh?) on the Tracks Tuesday was originally intended, but simply because it’s wonderful. I have a natural love for Amanda Palmer which has never withered because she is humongously great and has not ever been otherwise, and coupled with the vast intensity of Radiohead’s music, this song is worthy of love.
I listened to this song as I sat on the train home this evening. I get the Nottingham train and get off at East Midlands Parkway, to transfer to the Sheffield train to take me to Long Eaton, because you cannot get a seat on the Sheffield train from my station of origin, and my legs have become sloth-like and selfish in their old age. There will be more on this later. The peaceful interim of waiting for the second train is only broken by the sounds of water gushing from cooling towers, their outlines somehow blacker than the night sky.
The first train journey of the evening, seats galore, is even more peaceful.
Idioteque, with the volume high enough to hear Amanda’s every purposeful breath, sumptuously graced my ears for a few minutes before I caught sight of the canal barge docks highlighted by hums of blue within the visible realms of the horizon. I don’t know what it is like to own a canal barge, or to store it safely in its home overnight, or to walk the wooden boards of the blue-lit platforms, but I imagine that it is something close to magical. I think this every evening. As I followed the lights I suddenly was looking directly into the reflection of my eyes which startled me somewhat and as the lights passed beyond my sight I was drawn to a crease in my forehead which I had tried to ignore for a period of time. The stranger beside me wouldn’t understand if I had tried to explain it, so instead I continued to look upon myself.
I realised at once that I was frowning and attempted to placate my gaze, straightening my eyebrows so that the crease in my skin disappeared. Pleased at the result I relaxed, only to have my eyebrows return to their quizzical position and the crease again erupt (to the rapturous applause of the train’s braking system; I neared the end of my first journey). I tried again to soften my face and became abhorrently aware of the tension in my cheeks and my unsymmetrical jaw. Holding the air of pleasantry was a strain. The crease reappeared. I thought to myself that I would never walk the canal docks, and never not be old, and that the song was really, utterly, truly perfect.
I’ll laugh until my head comes off, women and children first.