I have flown into Nashville, to support David S. in his valiant work with the beast that is Crimson. At their best, they truly are a beast of a rock band. Mother lock up your speakers.
Punk is sharing an appartment with DS, in the far wilderness that is Brentwood – two dirty little boys together, neither of whom know how to do the washing up (tschtt tschtt). I myself am enjoying Michael P's generous hospitality.
It is a long while since I have been in Nashville. I have acclimatized with a splendid lunch with David and Robert, preceded by a well spent hour in a used book store : RF, book on the third Reich (I think); DS, "collected PG Wodehouse"; Punk, "Over Sexteen, prudes won't think its funny"- groan – and my own "The Oxford Book of Death".
I am now enjoying a restful evening, jetlagging gently with a glass of very passable Brut Korbel Californian Champagne (at $10 who cares) reading my new treasure to the accompaniment of Decca's "Baroque Adagios". 157.45 minutes of bliss courtesy of RF.
So many treasures that I could relate from the "Book of Death" – which is, of course, far more a commentary on life than it is on death - but I shall content myself with the final words of Vaughan Williams, the favourite composer of the cashier at Tower Records :
"In the next world, I shan't be doing music. I shall be being it."
Now there's a thought on which to go to bed.
"Cynicism is death to the artist."
