Blistering and Wistful

It's a duty to Andrew that brings me back. He sends a text from London: young lady, what would you say if I said that I was dancing to disco...and that it is the future? Me: I'd say that's going straight to the blog.

There's disco at Splendour. It's the Scissor Sisters and it doesn't sound like the future. It sounds like old Elton John. It sounds like ten minutes ago. It sounds like the period too soon after a big debut. Like The Killers. Like Franz Ferdinand before you remember why you liked them in the first place.

The future? The future, my dears, is Karen O. Her surname is a perfect circle, but she's got all the right angles. Much later Noonie says that the musical boys in our group were caught up in the fact that there's no bass guitar. We hadn't noticed, but we loved her crazy shorts. I know, what I know.

There's another brunette on stage the day before, but you can't even see her. She moves too fast. How does she sing and jump and breathe and shimmy all at the same time? And how does she make Great Gatsby dance moves look so damn punk? Josie says it's kids music. I'm happy to be a kid. The songs are complex and jaunty and familiar. Gen Y is all savvy delightful innocence trailing a rhythmic gymnastics ribbon and it makes me wistful.

Noonie says Tim is wistful too. I wonder if it's possible to be blistering and wistful at the same time. When he throws his head back and shakes the sweat off from side to side there's no purer expression of joy. Part of me wishes that I was a boy that could play guitar, drink bourbon from the bottle and hang out with Perko, and part of me is repulsed.