LOVE LETTER TO A MICROPHONE
Do you remember 1940’s mics? They had this elongated shape, all chrome, with thin grids around it? All sleek and shiny, looking smart at the top of their stands, looking down on the crowds like they’re as big a celebrity as the performer, y’know what I’m saying? If you can picture ol’Blue-eyed Frank, or even the King, in their prime, that’s what they woulda got in hand. Not some of those modern electronic shit.
1940’s, man, I tell you. These things had style! They had cachet, a little je ne sais quoi… They’re just perfect, y’know? When I see one of those, I feel I’m back in a smoke-filled, beer-smelling Old-Continent cabaret club, with everyone looking smart in their suits, taking their dame out for an evening of good conversation and music, like proper, y’know? And then the lights would dim in the room, sounds of chatter would be hushed, and here it would be, the mic, alone in the spotlight, a silver beacon of the happiness and magical moment to come, for a few brief moments, the only star in the room and the only thing that matters. And out of the depth of the shadows at the end of the stage, like a sailor lured out by a siren’s song only he can hear, out comes she. Marlene. The blue-eyed angel, with an impeccable gait, sashaying enough to be erotic yet not vulgar, her hair so neat, arranged in wavy curls over one side of her symmetrical face. She doesn’t look at the mic as she approaches. She knows it’s there.
It shines. Her long gloved fingers delicately caress its shape as she nears it. Satin on steel, then her second hand grabs the shaft as she nears her thinly-parted red lips. She inspires, and as she lets her love song loose on the audience, the stage brightens up, revealing all the womanliness of her curves in this purple satin dress.
And that… that is as close to a religious feeling as I’ll ever get, I’ll tell you that. Like I said, these things had style.
And now what have we got? Some upper-middle-class minimalist artsy bullshit design for wankers with no honest-to-goodness job, huddled in a shitty Starbucks with their trendy fashionable bunch. Cunts. Give them a frying pan with a white diagonal stripe and all of a sudden they’ll buy fucking dozens of this shit, even though obviously they don’t cook. Now, sure, I don’t either, but that might be because I’m a bit of an old-fashioned man – blame it on my education – I love my missus doing the cookin’. On a side note, she wouldn’t have none of this nonsense either.
Just because your underpants have a famous Italian stylist’s name on it, you think you’ll shit gold ingots? Tell you what, these people drive me nuts. It’s like the cars. What the hell is wrong with cars these days? Sure, they’re faster than they used to, but what happened to old-style Cadillacs, uh? Remember those beauties? And now they tell me I gotta drive a Kia? What the hell’s a Kia anyway? All I see is a box on wheels, nothing more. It gets me from A to B, but what about the ride, the experience? I want to feel the freedom and the youth, the gentle madness of a car shaped more like a plane than anything else, I want it to be coloured and bright and crazy and unique and not dull and grey and boring like an October traffic jam in Birmingham. Dreary fuckin’ Birmingham.
Anyway, y’know what I’m saying? It’s all about sensuality, and there’s not enough of it around anymore. Even the girls – not that I care, I love my missus, y’hear – they’re just vulgar; no class, no class at all. Showing their goods like cheap prostitutes. Pfah! Tss. ‘Guess I’m just drunk, is all.
I need a piss.