I'll probably add to this as I write this novel, in fact I can almost guarantee it. A big chunk of the story is devoted to music, musicians, music-lovers, so I'm grappling with the concept of not just writing about music but rather "writing music". How do you find the words for how music makes you feel? Having a musical background I can harp on and on (a regrettable and unintended pun) about notes, chords, harmonies, consonance, dissonance, Lennon & McCartney vs Berlioz or Schoenberg. But it's the intangible, unquantifiable bits of music that are bugging me, eluding me, at the moment. Ah sod, I'll just cut and paste and mull over this stuff later. For now let's all group hug the Valley.
Mentals is closed on Monday nights, mainly because Mister Dement says that fuck all happens in Brisbane on a Monday night. Until tonight Iâ€™ve never seen any evidence to the contrary.
Young hipsters mill through pubs and cafes with prostitutes, cops, derelicts, boozers, and buskers. Itâ€™s cold, but not cold enough to stop punters from getting around in miniskirts and t-shirts. I stop to listen to a busker, a girl with dreadlocks, no shoes, and a voice powerful enough to smack you in the face. I stay a while, long enough to notice that she doesnâ€™t wait for applause and that sheâ€™s very angry that strong women apparently have no voice.
'Thank you, comrade,' she slips into the song's melody as I drop a few gold coins in her hat.
I understand if you're not from Brisbane, "the Valley" doesn't mean that much to you. To you I say, keep reading this blog and buy the book when it comes out. Only after I receive a royalty will you get it.