Wednesday, February 1, 2023

29 January 2023. Tom Verlaine RIP

 He'd often pass me on 17th Street. He would be walking to the Strand bookshop. He looked great in a blue shirt.

Once I was on the bus in the Julius Knipl district, those old garment factory brick bulidings with their black windows, the bus yellow like the cat in Totoro. I looked up from my book cos I thought the bus was on fire. It was him, wearing a wool coat and a Peaky Blinders cap. He'd obviously just put a cigarette out, a bonfire cigarette, the sort you catch a fire from when you share the match. 

One time we saw him. There weren't a whole lot of people. Big stage. High and long. Grey crowd. Space. Him in a black shirt by the black drum kit, with the black guitar. They thought he was just tuning up and getting restless. Might have been a full moon. But we were to find out this man could change the tuning of his guitar mid-song. And someone, Scottish, (who was staying at our house as it happened) shouted, "Come on you To-om" and he looked up. 

Those guitar solos took you to your tip-toes, and lift off. 

The very next day, we stopped on St Mark's Place to look at the bootleg cassettes and there was a recording from the night before. We bought it and played it over and over. The man with the tape recorder must have been standing by our Scottish guy. Come on you, To-om.

This is on my staircase. 

When I pass it ... elevating

No comments:

Post a Comment