Strange Days In October:
Death From Above 1979 - The Last/Carvel - Five To One

My friend Etienne is teaching me the chords to a famous French song about friendship. He is seated at his desk playing the lead and humming the melody while I stand and stare at the chords on his lap top and try and keep time. Etienne's friend James keeps walking in and out of the room, huffing and puffing, collapsing on the bed and holding his head in his hand. Turns out he's just bumped into a girl he's heavily infatuated with. Half an hour later we're outside the bar across the street, waiting for Etienne's friends. It's raining steadily so I lean up against a wall to shelter myself a little as Etienne rolls a cigarette and James seems to lose himself in his doubts and worries. I'm glad I'm wearing my fingerless gloves, it's getting cold. We go back to Etienne's when the friends don't show and he cooks some pasta. He gets mildly offended when I mix cheap sauce with the little remains of an expensive Italian import. He gets over it and we listen to Bob Dylan's Bringing It All Back Home until the batteries on the CD player run out, so we pick up our guitars and improvise some blues and folk. It's nice to play harmonica to a guitar that’s on the same wavelength. Soon enough we're in another kitchen, there’s more people here, drinking and talking. Etienne and I hunker down on the floor and play some more. We try Dirty Old Town a half dozen times and get it half right a few,

I Met my love
By the gasworks wall
Dreamed the dream
By the old canal
I kissed my girl
On the streets at night
Dirty old town
Dirty old town

That song always makes me think of home, it easily fits any suburban nowhere, I remember last time I was there standing on a bridge over the motorway and humming that song to myself. A few friends of mine come in, one of them is particularly drunk and explains there’s a guy in her house who thinks she’s a hooker, has paid her £2.50 and is probably expecting sex and she therefore needs me to pretend to be her boyfriend. The guy emerges from the toilet looking pretty drunk. I think he can see through it pretty easily, seeing as she’s drunkenly pawing over me while I stand there looking uncomfortable and about as animated as a piece of granite. He drinks some water, gets the message and leaves. I walk outside to go get my guitar and see a girl in the house next door, I tell my drunk friend she owes me one and to get me her neighbour’s phone number for me. Finally I'm walking home, with my guitar safely in a borrowed guitar bag. Another night, another adventure.

Standing in the shower. I always put off having showers but then when I have them I outstay my welcome. I bow my head to let the water run through my hair and as I look down at my feet I see it. A pair of fluorescent green foot prints on the shower floor. And before my unbelieving eyes they disappear and reappear in a different position. And again. And then back to the first. This cycle continues as I stare in amazement. I squat down to inspect closer and the foot prints disappear. But when I stand up they appear once more. I move to the side a little and the foot prints disappear. I shift back and they return. Disturbed I get out the shower and dry myself, worrying about my mental health.

For a good few hours I complex on this occurrence and ponder the cause and grow more and more anxious. I ask people they're opinions and they all draw the conclusions I'm under the influence or not getting enough sleep, however neither of which is true. Then in the middle of immersing myself in music by John Frusciante a revelation hits me. I'm viewing this occurrence entirely from the negative. What if it's a positive? What could it mean? Feet disappearing and reappearing. Feet moving. Feet walking. Where to? Well, why not that view I enjoy overlooking the city and cathedral? I walk out the door into the cold night sure that this will lead to something, or more likely some one. There I stand overlooking the view of the city. There’s people around, mostly drunk. I ignore them and take deep breathes of the clear night air as I stare at the illuminated cathedral amongst the twinkling lights. I look round and decide to take a seat, half on the grass bank, half on the path. And as soon as I've done this a voice says "Wonderful view isn't it?" The somebody is Frank Douglas, an ex US air force pilot turned politics lecturer who has taught on battle ships and military academies for the US Navy in over 50 countries. Amiable little man in a plaid shirt with a slight Southern accent, but domesticated in California. For the next hour we talk, well mostly he talks and I listen, about global climates, history, standards of education, the 60's, religious fundamentalists, the War On Terror, the enabling act, 9/11, music, patriotism, empires, genocide and Jethro Tull. He's currently doing his PhD, I think I'll buy his book when it's published. At some point a friend from another night that seems long ago comes along. His name is also Dan and he informs me he might be dropping out. After Frank bids his farewells I walk Dan back to his college. He's homesick and not enjoying his course too much. I suggest he try a few more weeks and if it's no good do as he has to. He agrees that’s probably the best option. It'll make me sad to see him go if he does, a fellow guitarist and more importantly folk, blues and roots fan. I've met a couple, none of which I'd form bands with, purely because instead we sit up all night showing each other songs in kitchen parties and drinking strong black coffee. It just feels more right that way. I'm sad Dan isn't finding what he's looking for. I've found what I'm looking for. I found it on the floor of my shower which led me to a fascinating individual. All on campus. Hopefully I'm not going mad.

Another Saturday night, another house party. I’m drawn over by the sound of an acoustic guitar. They’re more technically minded players than I, so I resign to just playing some harmonica. Eventually people drift away, but I feel more awake than I have for a week. Being required to leave the house for only four hours in a week can be a dangerous situation. Before you know what’s happened you’re depriving yourself of natural light and become completely absorbed in reading and music. Human contact seems incidental at best. So to be now out in the night filled with people I’m not willing to let it go easily. I wander around with a few others from the deceased party who are adamant on finding another. If they can’t find one then they plan to break into somebody’s kitchen and start one. Apparently they’re quite adept at this. As always I just let it all wash over me, just smile in an odd sort of way and carry on strumming my guitar. We meander around and eventually come to a house that looks familiar, namely because The Butcher lives there. He steams out, excited as ever, informing us that he wants to get in a fight and lose because he believes it’ll do him good. Once again, I’m not particularly fazed, this is a man who carries a carving knife just for kicks. At some point in time Ibby joins our band of misfits. I dig Ibby, he comes from Ladbrook Grove so I can relate all the skateboarding misadventures I’ve had there and he knows what I’m talking about. We talk about surfing and snow boarding and karma energy - we each associate with them. He’s pretty drunk, but he’s not a violent drunk, he’s a chilled out, Ibby drunk. We find our way home and Ibby stumbles off to his back door. I stand for a little while holding my guitar, it’s raining softly. Where am I going? Home, somewhere else? None of the above? I don’t know yet, but with any luck I will soon enough. Soon enough.

By Dann Dos

Copyright November 2005