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Endangered Species
Nov. 8th, 2015 11:38 pm"Endangered Species"
One, two, three.
Three inexpertly rolled spliffs rest loosely in the ashtray, the product of youthful inexperience and recluctance to share the hard-won prize of mediocre British resin. Coat pulled shut tight and window open to pull the door shut, this little former hotbox starts to roll, the swish, swish, swish of a single wiper marking time to the tempo, white label rarity sought out like truffles before door to door, mass produced exclusivity made every mix a commoditiy.
White labels and white rizlas. White rain, solid, flutters down to the car. The roads change from black, to grey, to pure white. The literal driven snow, few tracks to show which animals had taken this path.
Two. One hangs rebelliously from a pout that owes nothing to kicking against the pricks and more to kicking the jukebox in a tyranny against mass-produced pop. 16 weeks of Bryan Adams was more than anyone should bear; a constant refrain of Mother Russia to show my Dominion over the common room an acceptable intervention from a 14-hole DM boot over ripped black jeans. The authorities could have spared the violence just by putting a different stereo in the smoking room, the fog of cheap cigarettes and stale-scratched leather jackets broken by the shining white of the beauticians. In two years this would be gone, the greebos, the crusties and the goths would never find a neutral ground with their like again.
“Fuck!”. Ash glows dangerously, caught and guided out of the window. Pause, hand in the icy blast, arm above the telltale line of dents that commemorated each attempted death of the little Panda. Every flooded engine, every failing lead, every crunching gearshift gained another, until the door resembled a hand-beaten steel drum. Percussive maintenance for the car, percussive maintenance for me as the tape changes sides, Chumbawamba when they mocked legends, rather than authoring the anthem of a thousand lagered-up casuals just waiting to knock someone down so they’d never get up again.
It was a golden time for that music. One Little Indian had brought such pleasures, and through work there was a small role in a fanzine that ensured a steady supply of new treasures and sounds.
One. Turning off the main road and onto the winding path from Stow to Eskdalemuir via Yarrow. Moonlight makes the road glow, and snow makes it merge into the verge and fields as if driving across an unexplored moon, no traces to be found here.
When the day comes to settle down, Who's to blame if you're not around? “Hah. No-one.”
Reach down, dip clutch, pull the lever up and the pullyu gains pushme. Panda becomes a little mountain goat, unstoppable like the blizzard tempted out by the lack of audience here. Two is gone… what remains in the ashtray is now none, the last one held between fingers that flick the lever and increase the tempo, swishswish becomes flickflick, violent changes in direction as the view is almost overwhelmed. Then, light up, lights off. The starfield rushing towards the car becomes static on the screen, the moon’s cyanotype wash providing all the light needed until eyes adjust. Eildons gone now, the hills and mountains shadowed ahead hold less well-known spirits, and we race together, Panda & I, a black & white insect crawling across pristine white duvets, a pest and irritation on that ancient land.
Miles without lights, signs. Stop and open the roof, finish the last looking up at the stars. Switch the tape.
“Phoebe io e lara leda callisto sinope
Janus dione portia so many moons
Quiet in the sky at night hot in the milky way
Outside in”
Far out. Remembering, outside, in. Heat against cold skin, and the fear of discovery, and when she’d run with me and we pulled the grey Mare’s tail before disappearing into the night again.
Sit up, move the seat back, but leave the roof. Hoik up the collar, and aim for Hawick and the glowing lights of the 24 hour garage where a crow once landed on my shoulder, looked me in the eye, and fucked of to join a murder somewhere. Back then, those towns… I could have joined it. I felt rooted to the land, but the creatures on it, only the ones that didn’t talk spoke to me. Cats eyes stare into the moon, and reluctantly, responsibly I flick the Panda’s feeble lights into action. We speed up now, until the snow becomes lines, a Blur as we inexorably head to the end of the century. It’s nothing special.
Home. Alone. Take the vinyl from the sleeve, switch off the lights, switch on the amps, and retire to the comforts of the Dark Side of the Moon. Hergest Ridge will have to wait. A virtue I have yet to learn.
One, two, three.
Three inexpertly rolled spliffs rest loosely in the ashtray, the product of youthful inexperience and recluctance to share the hard-won prize of mediocre British resin. Coat pulled shut tight and window open to pull the door shut, this little former hotbox starts to roll, the swish, swish, swish of a single wiper marking time to the tempo, white label rarity sought out like truffles before door to door, mass produced exclusivity made every mix a commoditiy.
White labels and white rizlas. White rain, solid, flutters down to the car. The roads change from black, to grey, to pure white. The literal driven snow, few tracks to show which animals had taken this path.
Two. One hangs rebelliously from a pout that owes nothing to kicking against the pricks and more to kicking the jukebox in a tyranny against mass-produced pop. 16 weeks of Bryan Adams was more than anyone should bear; a constant refrain of Mother Russia to show my Dominion over the common room an acceptable intervention from a 14-hole DM boot over ripped black jeans. The authorities could have spared the violence just by putting a different stereo in the smoking room, the fog of cheap cigarettes and stale-scratched leather jackets broken by the shining white of the beauticians. In two years this would be gone, the greebos, the crusties and the goths would never find a neutral ground with their like again.
“Fuck!”. Ash glows dangerously, caught and guided out of the window. Pause, hand in the icy blast, arm above the telltale line of dents that commemorated each attempted death of the little Panda. Every flooded engine, every failing lead, every crunching gearshift gained another, until the door resembled a hand-beaten steel drum. Percussive maintenance for the car, percussive maintenance for me as the tape changes sides, Chumbawamba when they mocked legends, rather than authoring the anthem of a thousand lagered-up casuals just waiting to knock someone down so they’d never get up again.
It was a golden time for that music. One Little Indian had brought such pleasures, and through work there was a small role in a fanzine that ensured a steady supply of new treasures and sounds.
One. Turning off the main road and onto the winding path from Stow to Eskdalemuir via Yarrow. Moonlight makes the road glow, and snow makes it merge into the verge and fields as if driving across an unexplored moon, no traces to be found here.
When the day comes to settle down, Who's to blame if you're not around? “Hah. No-one.”
Reach down, dip clutch, pull the lever up and the pullyu gains pushme. Panda becomes a little mountain goat, unstoppable like the blizzard tempted out by the lack of audience here. Two is gone… what remains in the ashtray is now none, the last one held between fingers that flick the lever and increase the tempo, swishswish becomes flickflick, violent changes in direction as the view is almost overwhelmed. Then, light up, lights off. The starfield rushing towards the car becomes static on the screen, the moon’s cyanotype wash providing all the light needed until eyes adjust. Eildons gone now, the hills and mountains shadowed ahead hold less well-known spirits, and we race together, Panda & I, a black & white insect crawling across pristine white duvets, a pest and irritation on that ancient land.
Miles without lights, signs. Stop and open the roof, finish the last looking up at the stars. Switch the tape.
“Phoebe io e lara leda callisto sinope
Janus dione portia so many moons
Quiet in the sky at night hot in the milky way
Outside in”
Far out. Remembering, outside, in. Heat against cold skin, and the fear of discovery, and when she’d run with me and we pulled the grey Mare’s tail before disappearing into the night again.
Sit up, move the seat back, but leave the roof. Hoik up the collar, and aim for Hawick and the glowing lights of the 24 hour garage where a crow once landed on my shoulder, looked me in the eye, and fucked of to join a murder somewhere. Back then, those towns… I could have joined it. I felt rooted to the land, but the creatures on it, only the ones that didn’t talk spoke to me. Cats eyes stare into the moon, and reluctantly, responsibly I flick the Panda’s feeble lights into action. We speed up now, until the snow becomes lines, a Blur as we inexorably head to the end of the century. It’s nothing special.
Home. Alone. Take the vinyl from the sleeve, switch off the lights, switch on the amps, and retire to the comforts of the Dark Side of the Moon. Hergest Ridge will have to wait. A virtue I have yet to learn.
