Elegant disappointment: by the time we landed, checked in, farted around and made the requisite bad decisions of bad mood-ed travelers taken up in uncharacteristic sniping… we made it to the venue and Codeine was five songs in already.
Worst disappointment of my rock-life ever, only one other (unmentionable amidst this self-hate-heat and death-fire) even comes close. I was blown away by three sublime cuts (‘Loss Leader’ was unreal) before my new-found temper slithered up my spine and out my nostrils just to spit-piss in my fucking face. All. My. Fault.
Good three songs. They were great. I keep thinking, “it’s good the Numero Codeine Box is still sealed.” I can sell it! But it was a gift, really. But I want to take Codeine away from me. I had a plane ticket to an airport 30 minutes from the venue, and 3 hours later they started playing while I whatever-the-fucked.
In my life and in capitalist society the details that matter most and burn you most consistently are money matters. Agents and institutions will mock and moralize when you drop this or that cash-ball, and it only gets worse from there (i.e., jail or bankruptcy or poverty or insecurity.) However, if you’re mentally ill or disposed towards art, it’s the details of production, reproduction, distribution and reception that I invest with moral, libidinal and mortal weight. I’ve told before how I can’t sing or write or think like I used to, how my extremities swell and I “lose time” to blank stares and cyclical hate monologues. I remembered tonight, and I won’t forget or repress again, that I can’t carry the weight of my own wants. I’m too sick to constitute a proper audience, too fragmented to practice deliberate appreciation.
Next goes criticism. My wonk and my wank have watched anthropology, politics, guitars and bands and exercise and intimacy get intruded upon and carried away by fears, hatreds, self-fist-fucking and significantly the birth of an inner urge to bawl. Stifled, this drive demands attention in mostly childish or violent ways, both of which elicit laughs from intimates that make you think you know the sound of a miscarried could’ve-been’s skull. [In a far more slapstick way, it reminds me of nothing so much as an hour spent sprinting through Dublin desperate for a toilet.] Framing this story as funny or petty or nothing special to my in-laws in a couple of days is going to be like masturbating to post-Manson Sharon Tate pics.
I wanna throw my Codeine box in the street, or trade it in for exclusively far worse records. Really I’m just glad to be carrying enough physical pain (in my back and my knee) that I can’t and won’t act out further. It’s still the same old story: losers lose, and if they maintain enough composure to keep from blaming somebody else, they’ll at least succumb to forcing you into an autopsy of their failures large and small.
All I did was miss a show tonight. All I do is fail myself, most days. All my friends, wife, family get in return is a drawn out binary code of silences and rants, gagging and mourning, which cannot help but push them towards the shelter of proportionality, humor, relativity and clarity that protects them and alienates me. Dis-embedded, diffuse and longing for earthy release among my remaining thoughts and the machine-gun judgments of others, I see how everyone gets to be alone together. I see how it’s raining suggestions and expectations, but I can’t see the band from here.
I can’t make distinctions that enliven signification and bind me safely away from certain Siren songs. It makes me so angry that I force more failures. This is one way among others to drop off and out the self-regard you require like you need a name. When you’ve missed enough chances through accidents and incompetence, eventually you’ll die for more chances to spoil. Eventually you’ll spoil yourself. You’ll soil yourself, resting assured of future errors ahead: favorite art flying faster and further away. You can buy a fucking ticket but you won’t see the show. You can buy the records but the platters won’t play. You can make a trade and lose on the deal, and with the subsequent ignominy ingested you can call it a day. Maybe you can writhe all night, fail and groan away the day. Hell, you flew all this way…