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  • indie rock ve art rock tanrılarından thurston moore'un yazdığı ve çevirmeye üşendiğim, oldukça güzel, sürükleyici bir otobiyografik öykü.

    in '77 i was nineteen living on east 13th street in new york and paying, or trying to pay, $110 a month rent. i was bonkers, alone, with no social life. i met this girl and became obsessed with being in love with her. she was fucking this older writer poet guy who lived in my building on the top floor. i would hang out my window from afternoon to evening hoping and waiting for her to turn the corner. one day she knocked, came in and i knew we were gonna have to be together forever. five minutes later the writer guy knocked and walked in all innocent and smiling and i realized the two of them had plans that day and she said "ok, see y'later!' and i was like, "ok" and then i blanked out. it wasn't so tragic cuz i did eventually score some quality time with her (she was swedish!) but too many stupid hours were spent walking from the east village to tribeca, back and forth, chanting punker mantras of unrequited desire, hoping to run into this incredible on-the-loose girl. i moved to new york early '77. i had planned it for the last couple of years. i fantasized about it constantly. my fantasies were fueled by the progressive development of punk. it was david johansen to patti smith to john cale to the ramones to the dictators to punk magazine to new york rocker to rock scene to st. mark's place to bleeker bob's to manic panic to gem spa to max's to cbgb, etc, i was playing in a television/ talking heads influenced art-rock band called the coachmen. they were rhode island school of design graduates (same school david byrne went to) and they were older than me (early 20s). i met the leader guy in my hometown record store and he told me he was moving to new york to start a punk band. we pen-palled and i moved in and joined them. sid was on the loose. someone stabbed nancy a week or two prior and sid was bombing around town. he would come see judy nylon at cbgbcuz he was friends with her. we (the coachmen, the only friends i had) would go to the gig cuz we knew the drummer and the place would be pretty empty. judy wasn't super popular but she was rad, doing a real slow punky version of jailhouse rock. but fucking sid would walk in and sit right near us. he was the skinniest. his skin was totally white. and he had those looks and mannerisms that you knew he just had to have. my dream was to start a band with him that would totally kill. he was down and out and i was
    ready to immerse myself in him. total punk rock. but i was in an art-rock band. he was into heroin, murder and weird sex from after-hours hell. when he died it was one of the most intense moments of my life. i watched the tv reports like it was kennedy being assassinated. i collected and have to this day every newspaper clipping there was (unfortunately the was a newspaper strike in new york which limited the amount of super schlock coverage).
    i used to walk around the streets looking for pennies so i could save up 200 of them and then go to st. mark's cinema (2nd ave. & 8th--the gap's there now) and see the second-run double-feature. the audience was a mixture of artist downtowners, east village puerto rican dudes,luminaries (divine, richard hell, etc.) and new-wave loners (myself).the lobby was a cloud of cigarette and pot smoke. i remember richard hell sitting down with his then girlfriend susan springfield and i got up and sat in front of them as if i was a dishevelled poet punk hoping to impress them. i met richard many many years later and he had no recollection of this. i spent a glorious march weekend with the swedish girl i was obsessed with and i figured she would just stay in my apartment forever from that moment on but she left monday morning wearing my overcoat. she actually said she'd be right back but she never returned. i ran into her a couple of weeks later and she refused to address the issue and i told her i needed my coat back. i actually almost cried in front of her and told her i loved her and all i wanted was a girlfriend to
    live with and all the while a fire engine was screaming past us. she knew
    what i was saying and just kind of smiled compassionately because of all
    the noise around us. we were both a little embarrassed. i lived on 13th
    street between a & b. in 77/78 there weren't so many skinny white kids in the area and i'd get harassed and chased sometimes. the only person i was aware of living on that street was lydia lunch. at first i was anti-lydia because there was an interview with her in soho weekly news where she called patti smith a barefoot hippie chick and television a bunch of old men playing wanky guitar solos. seeing as how punk rock defined itself by trashing led zep, floyd et al, i was amazed there was this new punk person trashing patti smith! i moved to new york to fuck patti smith and now lydia was saying patti was most definately uncool. patti had moved away anyway. and television was over. and the voidoids were over. i saw lydia standing on the corner of 13th and a and she had a nose ring. nobody had nose rings in those days. i thought she was exquisite. later i saw her on the platform of the l train at 1st avenue. i came barreling down the stairs through the turnstile and nearly ran her over.
    she stared at me very wide-eyed and i continued on. i became good
    friends with lydia many years later and she told me she was obsessed
    with tall skinny white guys at the time and we were bot of age and
    demeanor where something wild could've definately developed. who knows what would've happened if i had become lydia's lover at 18.
    the coachmen broke up and i decided to play the guitar as if i existed in a
    pure state of mind and could attack it with flowing mindful sensitive
    energy/expression. i knew nothing of jazz, free-jazz, or any studied
    musical concept of improvisation. i had a ratty skinny-lapel suit jacket
    (all east village poor-boy punk rockers had one) and no job. i jammed
    with this girl miranda who asked me after our first session, "do you
    always play like that?" i wasn't sure. it was new to me. she said her
    best friend was this beautiful artist named kim. they played music
    together in a group called ckm which was the two of them and the
    drummer christine hahn from glenn branca's trio the static. i was duly
    impressed and even more exciting was that they were trying to get nina
    canal from ut to play with them. kim wore glasses with flip-up shade and
    had an australian sheepdog named egan. she had an off-center ponytail
    and wore a blue and white striped shirt and pants outfit. she had
    beautiful eyes and the most beautiful smile and was very intelligent and
    seemed to have a sensitive/spiritual intellect. she seemed to really like me.
    i definately liked her but was scared as always to make a move. i was
    afraid to kiss her. we walked around a couple of times. one night it got
    late and we were eating at leshko's and i think she wanted me to ask her
    over. i only lived up the street. so we parted. she would take the subway
    staying at gallery owner anina nosei's place. before she split she actually
    touched my arm (!) and said "see you later." she moved into a raw
    railway apartment on eldridge street below grand street. the artist `dan
    graham` lived upstairs and had aquired the place for her. she invited me
    over one evening and i played this beat up guitar she had. i knew the
    guitar because it belonged to an associate of the coachmen gang who left it at jenny holzer's loft where kim had stayed and somehow it was passed on to her. all she had was the guitar and a foam rubber cushion for
    sleeping. that night was the first time we kissed.

  • the final countdown albümünde yer alan bir europe parçası.
  • 2.dakikadan itibaren çok gaz bir şarkıdır.
  • ing. kaçak, firari.