Book me a room. I'm going North.

Last night I stumbled into a house, and it wasn't the house I'm currently staying at. This house is called 'decleyre'. Matt, Monica and Matt's sister had invited me along for an evenings entertainment. Now, I struggle to describe this place, and am disappointed in myself for providing no photographic evidence. For it was a sight. It reminded me of houses I would stay in when I was in Brighton, only more 'American'. Actually, the house wasn't 'American' it's just that the people were.

If Hunter Thompson had written 'Harry Potter', this house is what the sixth form common room would have looked like. There was a wood stove by the front door, sat next to a beat up old upright piano, that was as flat as a pancake. A smashed up tv lay dormant on a table, as if some insallation. There was a young, grizzly man, dressed in a Brontë-esque dress, wearing sunglasses, painting on the far wall. The walls were decorated in all fashion of colours, and he was adding to them with a portrait of two young, hispanic looking girls, eyes pointing to the skies.
A small gathering of people milled about the house, all a perfectly sketched 2nd generation of bandits, descendants of those that drove straight to the heart of the American dream in the late 60's/early 70's. I struggled to decide whether I was somewhere so whole-heartedly genuine and innocent in it's promotion of community, or perhaps instead, had I fallen face-first into a desperate attempt to keep those dreams of previous decades alive? Those dreams that even the originators now cast aside in favour of living within society's boundaries. In all honesty, I don't think any sort of conscious effort is made on these people's behalf. I think they just live in this manner because they want to, they can, and it keeps the demons of responsibility and age at bay. Which is great.

I was given a tour by Matt's sister, and was shown more dimly-lit communal space and a hostel-like bedroom, where travellers can catch some naps. There were dogs running around the house and the whole place felt warm and welcoming. I haven't experienced anything but that, since I've been in America.
The house was large, and I learned that it has been in this way for a decade or so now. These people owned the place, it was their home. Much like anywhere else.

A band warmed up, and began to play. A female fiddle player, and two young gents. One on drums. One on Guitar.

If anyone is acquainted with the Manchester Music scene, think of 'Bookstore' with more finesse. That's all will say. I couldn't hear the fiddle, but the girl had determined eyes and a sense of Musicality that leapt out at you, so I'm thinking she holds a tune pretty well. Oh, and a quick note. I heard 'Bookstore' are splitting up. Thank fuck for that.


As they played, I noticed a pair of legs dangling from the ceiling. They appeared to be female legs coming from upstairs. They hung there for a while and then disappeared. I remember doing the same thing once and losing a shoe. Never again.


I sipped Guinness and talked to strangers, the dim lights stinging my eyes. Though it could have been the cigarettes.


Another band started to set up. I marvelled at their hardware. A telephone handset attached to a harmonica neck brace, probably the entire collection of BOSS Guitar pedals, a large drum kit with cowbells and inverted cymbals, a saxophone and more home made stuff. This band are called 'Late Night Curly' and are very good. Check them out.

The bassist looked like one of the 118-118 guys. No, scrap that, the bassist WAS one of the 118-118 guys, and he played very well. Lots of walking bass and interludes on the sax. The guitarist is a small peruvian dude who played frantically modal, jagged riffs. This is the main stay of a lot of their tunes, and their ability to hop time signatures at a more than impressive rate.

I bought four copies of their E.P in the hope that they will reach British shores before I do. So, check your mailboxes. The E.P is a polished affair, as is all their internet ready stuff, which is a shame, because it was the noise that made the night really, along with the telephone-howl. When I get back, I think the only way i'll listen to this album is by downsampling it and chucking huge amounts of fuzz over it. Then I'll turn it up. And then up again.

The drummer banged hard and pulled theatrical/comic faces whilst doing so. In fact, this is exactly what my brother does when playing air drums. In the context of the Music it worked very well and I enjoyed watching him. Maybe it's because he reminded me of my brother, or maybe because next time my brother does it, I'll be reminded of last night.

The band finished and I felt more than satisfied. The guitarist put some rap music from his ipod on, I leant against the pillar smoking cigarettes, wishing I wasn't listening to rap music.

The rap was followed by Beck. I used to love Beck, but not anymore. Beck's a scientologist. Scientologists are cunts.


Utter.cunts.

We piled into a car when the day was young and got back to sanssouci and went to sleep.

Sanssouci is also the name of a rococo style palace in Potsdam, just outside of Berlin. I thought about this as I lay drifting off. I thought about Berlin and Europe. I thought about how grateful I am to be European. Steeped in tradition and history. America is fucking cool, really fucking cool, but it's a different life. One that I envy and look down on at the same time.





So that was last night, it had to come first in the post as it made a lasting impression. Thanks to 'late night curly'.


Before heading to 'decleyre' I joined Matt and a few of the other Sanssouci guys on their weekly 'Food not Bombs' exploit. We (More of a single handed effort from Matt) cooked food up in the morning and made tea. Packed it in the Jeep, and drove to a spot on Madison. We laid out a table and proceeded to run the same routine that happens back home.

The routine is: Stand. Get Cold. Eat the food that you're supposed to be giving out. Feel overjoyed when your first plate is given out.

After about half an hour of freezing our nuts off in the drizzle, we started getting interest and ended up making it a more than worthwhile trip. I was worried at first that no one would appear, as the weather was so cold. But people came. People were fed. And that was that.


This man is called 'The King'. I think if he were alive today, he'd be hosting 'Strictly Come Dancing' or something. Like all the other fat burn-outs.





I leave Memphis tomorrow night.