The return of Everett True | 158. Membranes
You see, some of us still remember the secret history of the 1980s.
Not me. Most of it is blinding white light followed by blinding white light followed explosions of noise followed by the sound of puke splattering onto the pavement from the side of a taxi followed by useless imagination followed by a stage door left open followed by the sound of a big heavy metal typewriter hitting rows of LP albums followed by neon lights glinting miserably in the rain followed by a minute of detail followed by the sound of heads hitting cold Aberdeen floors followed by crazy… nothing. I have no memory.
John Robb, he remembers the secret history of the 1980s.
And Geoff Stoddart, he does too.
I bet others.
Others. I don’t know their names and I can’t recall their faces. It all implodes somewhere around… there is no cut-off point. I play Membranes to myself in an emptying house in Brisbane in 2015 and the drums thud a relentless rhythm to my brain, and the guitars are white-hot embers. The voice is hoarse beyond rhapsody. Some of us can only recall the secret history of the 1980s through snatches of half-remembered music – Z’ev, Live Skull, UT, Jackdaw With Crowbar, Dog-Faced Hermans, Membranes. And the last is the greatest. Conversations about God and death till four in the morning. I met John Robb in Manchester in the mid-2000s and he remained the same. The rain was the same, but he was different. He wasn’t different, I wasn’t the same. The noise decay spirals away and then starts up again, ever more fierce. Is this vital music in 2015? Why not ask someone with a sense of perspective? Did it all only ever come down to which side you were on then? That would be a pity. The Ex. They spoke. The Ex. They start the world alight. Membranes. I recall little except the frenzy of dancing and the amplifiers overloading and the bouncer at the Marquee not going anywhere near us. A nightclub up north. These aren’t memories. Or they are, but they’re memories of reading memories.
John and I have always been rivals, friends. He could speak to people. I couldn’t. Still can’t. He knows the secret histories. Ask John. He understands people, knows how to make them feel special. It’s quite a knack.
The noise spiral decays away and begins all over again. Guitar laden over by guitar and the vocals low, low down in the mix, a constant reminder. Sometimes, I fool myself I write this way because I am trying to reach some form of ‘truth’. Other times, I know it’s because I’m flabby and can’t write. Maybe I always was more driven then I have ever given myself credit for. Maybe I was part of something once.
Death death. It always comes back to death.
Some day soon we’re going to collaborate again, I can feel it.
Maybe this time we’ll bring down the whole fucking world with us.
Oh wait. The music.
And this is me. No-mates Jerry.
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