What kind of a life is this? People come and then they go, usually in that order. My life consists of one night relationships. No one wants to be my friend, as no one wants to be the friend of someone life me. I'm the man with the records, the man with the make up. I'm no one's friend. I'm too distant. Too far away from reality for that. Just sex, no questions asked. You come to my place, make sure you're gone by the time I wake up, or vice versa. Bye now, here's the taxi fare. No 'that was great' or 'can I see you again?'. Just over. For good.
I came to London, and I was expecting fame, fortune. I wanted it good. I wanted everything I'd never had. Sex, good quality sex. People to admire me. People to respect my choices, my sexuality, how I dressed, how I acted. I got it all, everything I wanted. But you grow up, and you want more. Now, I'm not saying I never appreciated what I got. I am, ever so much. But I never perceived it would be like this. So empty, so time consuming. So dull and boring. I'm thirty years old and I haven't had a significant relationship in my life. I haven't had any relationship that's lasted more than a night or two in four years. And when you're getting on a bit like myself, you notice this more than when you're a twenty one year old, lusting after every male in the joint.
There was something about me that made me different. I could never explain it. I was a poet, a songwriter. I couldn't explain a simple emotion like this, yet I could describe every other complex feeling I had ever had. But this - this difference was different itself. It was there beside me all the time. I couldn't escape it. I was punished for it as a child, rewarded for it after that, but now I feel like I'm being punished again. Eventually the one night stand's will end, and I shall be left with nothing. No one. No friends other than faded rockers who are so doped up that they can't see me and record company executives who I don't like and who only like me because I made them a lot of money. What's the price of fame? You get the money, the sex, the boys, everything you wanted when you were growing up in a two up, two down in Dublin. But nothing more than that. And what's it worth? Nothing at all.
Maybe the hippies had it right in the first place.
No, no, I can't be like this. I'm a rockstar. I have to have a persona, or else teenagers won't dream to become like me, and music from Curt Wild, Polly Small, The Flaming Creatures, myself and Brian Slade will forever be the music of choice, even when we're past it and our music is crap.
I saw Curt today. He's so cut up about things that he only expressed himself by way of the word "fuck". I think I believe this to be the only word he knows, yet he sings more words. At some point, I truly believed him to be a parrot.
"Fuck it, Jack. What the fuck am I doing here?" he asked me, glaring at me until I shook my head.
"I'll tell you what the fuck I'm doing here. I'm trying to keep out of the fucking spotlight, you know?"
His eyes were glazed over, and I felt death. Felt death either in his mind or his body. If he doesn't stop doing that stuff, he'll be dead before next year. And I doubt he'll ever stop it. He's a, to put it in his own language, fucked up moron. But of course I love him. And I knew what he meant. Lying low, keeping away from the press, from other fucked up morons who would only feed his addiction. Addiction to pot, addiction to sex, addiction to just plain old fame and the whole idea of fame.
I wanted to ask him why he does it. Why he goes on if he hates it, but I stopped myself because I knew he'd turn around and ask me the same question. And I have no answer. I don't suppose I hate it, not anymore. I tolerate it. But I hate the fact that we fade into nothing. And that's how we'll be remembered. We want to be shining stars, remembered forever. And the only way that will happen is if we release one album and then die tragically in a car crash or commit suicide. And we're just not ready for that. Life's not quite that bad yet.
I came to London, and I was expecting fame, fortune. I wanted it good. I wanted everything I'd never had. Sex, good quality sex. People to admire me. People to respect my choices, my sexuality, how I dressed, how I acted. I got it all, everything I wanted. But you grow up, and you want more. Now, I'm not saying I never appreciated what I got. I am, ever so much. But I never perceived it would be like this. So empty, so time consuming. So dull and boring. I'm thirty years old and I haven't had a significant relationship in my life. I haven't had any relationship that's lasted more than a night or two in four years. And when you're getting on a bit like myself, you notice this more than when you're a twenty one year old, lusting after every male in the joint.
There was something about me that made me different. I could never explain it. I was a poet, a songwriter. I couldn't explain a simple emotion like this, yet I could describe every other complex feeling I had ever had. But this - this difference was different itself. It was there beside me all the time. I couldn't escape it. I was punished for it as a child, rewarded for it after that, but now I feel like I'm being punished again. Eventually the one night stand's will end, and I shall be left with nothing. No one. No friends other than faded rockers who are so doped up that they can't see me and record company executives who I don't like and who only like me because I made them a lot of money. What's the price of fame? You get the money, the sex, the boys, everything you wanted when you were growing up in a two up, two down in Dublin. But nothing more than that. And what's it worth? Nothing at all.
Maybe the hippies had it right in the first place.
No, no, I can't be like this. I'm a rockstar. I have to have a persona, or else teenagers won't dream to become like me, and music from Curt Wild, Polly Small, The Flaming Creatures, myself and Brian Slade will forever be the music of choice, even when we're past it and our music is crap.
I saw Curt today. He's so cut up about things that he only expressed himself by way of the word "fuck". I think I believe this to be the only word he knows, yet he sings more words. At some point, I truly believed him to be a parrot.
"Fuck it, Jack. What the fuck am I doing here?" he asked me, glaring at me until I shook my head.
"I'll tell you what the fuck I'm doing here. I'm trying to keep out of the fucking spotlight, you know?"
His eyes were glazed over, and I felt death. Felt death either in his mind or his body. If he doesn't stop doing that stuff, he'll be dead before next year. And I doubt he'll ever stop it. He's a, to put it in his own language, fucked up moron. But of course I love him. And I knew what he meant. Lying low, keeping away from the press, from other fucked up morons who would only feed his addiction. Addiction to pot, addiction to sex, addiction to just plain old fame and the whole idea of fame.
I wanted to ask him why he does it. Why he goes on if he hates it, but I stopped myself because I knew he'd turn around and ask me the same question. And I have no answer. I don't suppose I hate it, not anymore. I tolerate it. But I hate the fact that we fade into nothing. And that's how we'll be remembered. We want to be shining stars, remembered forever. And the only way that will happen is if we release one album and then die tragically in a car crash or commit suicide. And we're just not ready for that. Life's not quite that bad yet.