Music.
►The Moorish Room, and before.
I've been in bands, off and on, for
yonks. From 1993 I played guitar, then bass, in a band called Dead Mr Jones. We
clocked up 4 gigs in two years. The core of Dead Mr Jones then formed
►Gig News.
I’m mostly
gigging solo at open mic nights just now. I’ll post details as and when
they’re available.
►Listen.
As soon as I
can sort out the technical stuff involved I’ll post some MP3s of Moorish
Room tracks here.
►Lyrics.
Here's some lyrics from my days with
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Isaac Relax. Isaac, relax. No-one will love the love's you might love, and no-one will f-ck the f-cks you might f-ck. Always reluctant to disarm for yet another false alarm. But are you prepared for a life unshared, or are you really brave enough for the unbelievable truth of love? What you're not shown early on, you have to imagine later. I'd rather be a father than the father of science. |
Winterland. 'Here be monsters, and there be monsters, and everywhere be monsters. The bad will ooze out of you forever, while the world turns and walks away.' That was the song my father taught me, those are the words he clogged my throat with. I dreamt that I went down to the river to look for your body again. I don't want to go down to the river, to look for your body again and again. Whenever I think of slamming a door on somebody's head until there's nothing left of it, I'll think of you, you selfish shit. Thanks for all the memories, you selfish shit. I don't need punishment, I need nourishment; fucked if I'm living the life of a penitent. Piggyback's over you waste of space, love songs now for the ones who deserve them. I'm teaching myself a second language, so I can try some different damage. |
Close up. Walking round Portmeirion, feeling myself unlock. Remembering what it's like to be interested in the world. Remembering what it's like to enjoy talking. Coming back to me like a memory of swimming. How did I get this far through a life, never seeing mountains? Strange how close up they look like anyone could cope with them. Must be something to do with scale and perspective. Maybe some things just look bigger from a distance. |
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Strange Strange your writing, after all this time. I compare your hand to that of friends, and try to guess you. I imagine you like the words, angular and leaning away from what went before. At the end there is a name, hung suspended, half a stranger, an unfinished anger. |
Accidents and emergencies. Here I won't concern myself with the lucky ones who had their hands held, while they were learning the difference between wanting, getting and deserving. My envy goes to those who fail out loud and at least come away with a story. They ask for more and fill their lives with accidents and emergencies. But I know I'm the fool who wrote this tale of dodging love and chasing failure. Loveless I drifted with nothing to steer by, now I'm scratching my head, becalmed. I got the life scared out of me once and I've been playing possum ever since. No hotel porter will walk into my room, find me in bed with Miss World, surrounded by empty bottles of champagne, and turn to me and say; 'Where did it all go wrong George?' |
Deaf Two trains are running parallel. I hang between the pair of them, knowing that they'll soon diverge. One will loop back to the flatlands, one will head for the land of plenty. Enough's enough, but plenty's better. I'm moving through a collapsing world with a look on my face like Buster Keaton. I declare my self unfinished, untidy but unbeaten. |
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Appendix. It's like Aldous Huxley said. If you started the wrong way, anything could seem a proof of a plot against you. If you start with fear and hate as the major premise, you just have to go on to the natural conclusion. What gave me this has gone now. I've chewed my head down to a raw stump. I want to see if I can live without all of those dead things which formed the hinge on which my life has swung. The things that made the lack in me will never fill the lack in me. Nausea at the smallest lie. Those old feelings remain like an appendix, after the use has gone. She was right when I was on my knees, with a handful of broken glass. She said, 'It's alright. You don't have to be perfect.' |
Blessed. Thirteen and walking into town, to the library in the pouring rain. Two lovers walking towards me, arm in arm beneath a big umbrella. Seemed then that in love as in pool, the winners always get to stay on. How's that supposed to be fair? They don't need the practice. Some are curled up on the sofa, some get sent out to the pictures. Some misplace people's numbers, others have their numbers lost. There's those who make excuses, and those who have them made to them. And blessed are the excuse-makers, for they shall inherit the earth. I don't want to think of all the time I've spent with the ache of want like tinnitus. And I don't want to think how little time there's been under the umbrella. |
Like cigarettes. Cluelessness and witlessness, and my shyness and my shitness got me in a state like this; suspicious of a pity kiss. Life is not so newly painted for some people as for others, calling something easy doesn't always make it feel that way. Like a squatter in the house of love, always ready for a knock at the door. Writing about the absence of tenderness isn't the same as doing something about it. She had this appetite for life. It made me realise I'd been leaving most of mine on the side of my plate for as long as I could remember. Nin said life expands or contracts in proportion to our fear. I ought to get that tattooed on the inside of my eyelids. |
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► All content on the site is copyright
Eddie Willson Ó 1994-2004. Don't reproduce any of it without
asking permission first. You can email me at eddiewillson2000(at)yahoo.co.uk
if you've got questions or feedback about my
work, or you just want to get in touch.