From ‘I Could Have Lied’

“I like American music: it’s familiar and alien in roughly equal measure. Tim Buckley with Lee Underwood. John Frusciante. The mournful wailing from the underbelly of the free world. The first time I heard a Frusciante guitar part I was in a takeaway pizza place at two am and I leaned drunkenly against the huge storefront window to cool my head down and it didn’t work, the glass didn’t hold me. I passed immediately through it and out, up into the night air. And I was gliding along a desert highway just before dawn, the top down or the windows open, a weak pink light on the skyline, and shadows, lots of shadows littering the ground, disturbed and scattered by the headlights of the car I was driving. I was there, I was somebody else, and nothing mattered, nothing but the sinking moon and the smell of a storm across the horizon. The blacktop, the cacti, the expanse of time, nothing else.”




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