Playwright with writers' block. Probably in left fallopian tube.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Breaking Up With Kate Bush
As I’m sure you know, having sex with an ex is always a bad idea.
Too much baggage whizzing about. It’s like a demented British Airways carousel after a horribly long flight with cheap chardonnay and way too much turbulence.
It’s not so much One-More-For-The-Road as You-Made-A-Mistake-Breaking-Up-With-Me-Look-Nah-Nah-What-A-Good-Root-I-Am.
There’s all the recriminations. The spiteful accusations. The lame Breakup Lines to try and ease the parting.
It’s not passionate, it’s petty.
I’ve realised that a similar thing occurs when you revisit the music of your past. That’s Past with a capital P.
Specifically, the music that you played when you were with an ex.
It’s been so many years since you and I were pals Kate.
How I loved your whimsical lyrics (“You’re like my yo-yo…” how craaazy is that?) and creepy whispering melodies, your mane of dark hair and your wild, wild I’m a bit-mad-you-know-eyes.
But those days of flouncy white frocks and one armed swaying and of course the high pitched eeriness of all your beautiful not-of-this-world songs are long gone.
As are the associated men. And that’s a Very Good Thing.
This weekend I was lingering in a music shop and I saw your cd The Whole Story. It had Wuthering Heights and Hounds of Love and all manner of reedy wierdy high pitched creepy whispery hits. I was looking for a cd to play in the car while I drove up north for a weekend away and I suddenly thought what a lovely idea it would be to revisit Kate.
I could one handed sway as I pootled up the Pacific Highway. I could flip my hair and roll my eyes in a madcap Kate-ish fashion. I could wear cheesecloth, or at least a blouse that flounced as well as allowing easy access for breast feeding.
And I could sing along of course because all those words were etched indelibly in my 19 year old brain.
And so it came to be. And I sang along and so did my baby and the high notes were met and lo surpassed, although not by me. And the car was fall of floaty, swaying, cheese clothy loveliness.
For about ten minutes.
And then the memories came flooding back.
It was creepy and not in the way you intended.
It was grubby. It was petty. There was a nasty taste in my mouth that I’d prefer not to identify but if I was going to be brutally honest I’d say was regret. Creepy whispery floaty regret.
And that’s why, I’m afraid, it’s over. No really.
It was beautiful while it lasted but I’d rather it stayed a wonderful memory. We've both gone too far down our respective roads, me, married with a baby and you, still floaty and whispery but now doing craazy songs about your washing machine.