Thursday, 18 September 2008


Diggadaggadigg  digg  daggadigg  daggadigg   daggadigg  dagga  dagga       dagga       dagga       dagga. He liked it best when the rhythms hooked up with his resting heart rate. 70 bpm or thereabouts. Body rhythms merging with the swaying of the carriages made for the best journeys home, he thought. Not hypnotic enough for a snooze, but close enough to enter some kind of semi conscious state, the deliciousness of speed and swaying, percussive stabs of rhythm and a good conversation to listen to, made him smile. 

He relished the challenge of having to listen carefully. Eyes closed, of course. He loved holding the vocal lines like they were close beside him, cherishing their rises and falls, the harmonies, the overlaps, the unfinished phrases as if they were a Mozart duet. It was an odd pleasure, he knew, blanking out the dull hollow rattling of the annoyingly loose door and the high pitched surround sound of vague electric buzzdrone, but it made him look forward to his journeys, helped him cope with the push and shove of squeezing himself into the packed train at the start and end of each day. Above it's relentless and erratic clattercacophony and all the polyrhtyhmic digga daggadigga riffs that recurred in different placements, he was discovering that certain voices rose with phrasing as surprisingly delicious and melismatic as his favourite operatic solos.