Renegade: The Lives and Tales of Mark E. Smith by Mark E. Smith

Author:Mark E. Smith [Smith, Mark E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780241972434
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2014-09-25T00:00:00+00:00

Voices 3

All he does is barge in barking orders after he’s had a few. He’s a total fraud … He’s not a particularly nice man … We were all fucked up on that tour … He has a lot of different sides, you see. I’m not with him as another hanger-on. He’s helped us out loads of times. He took us on tour when no other fuckers gave a fuck about us … I can hear them again. Word salads. I’m this, this and this … The dogs leap with their tongues. And then back down on thin legs … I come back to a TV unwatched … They’re a grind to be around. But someone must become the bloodhound … Frontiers. Reparations. Guilt … Going to the grave with all those unlived lives inside of them … Asexual desert heads … Still ’80. Still wanting it as it was then. Fixed … There’s only so much you can look at yourself. Before simple insanity … The retarded consistency of their nagging … Journalist thief stick. Fat for cash. More dough than his subjects … It does you good a bit of food; keeps you going. Through the lowlights of the day … He went for him. Tried to strangle … First time I met him he walked up to the van and said you’re the psychedelic drummer I’ve been hearing about, then, eh … And walked back inside. He does a lot more good than people say, though. He knew I was down. He just got on the phone and said I need that kit behind me again. I’ll always appreciate that … The burden of disappearance. Escape in water. Walking sick … CCTV knows more than most … This cough seems to be telling me to stop smoking … Failed to acknowledge the crowd. Angry crowd. Crowd unhappy at being ignored … I couldn’t be arsed hanging around. I thought they were supposed to be on at 10.00. It’s not the first time. It’s not asking much. All he has to do is lay off the pop for an afternoon. He’s fucking it up … I’m falling asleep in a big car and it’s not fucking England … I’m awake in a big car and it’s not fucking England … Body fogged in cruel uncertainty. In the space of a day suddenly you know nothing … He was nobody. He was a tumbleweed … I’m back in the pub. Whistling. He’s waiting for me again; dictaphone at the ready. Pedantic fucker … At least it’s flowing better this time. I’ll wing him some dust. I’ll wing him and watch. I’ll sit whiskyed. Make light of his heavy questions … Perhaps it’s me, but I am still drunk. I’m writing this just after the gig. The traffic was really bad. I wish they’d play all the tunes that I like. That beer we had was good, wasn’t it, Totale? I’ve watched them now for nigh on thirty-nine years and never have I encountered such a … Is it me or is Rob’s head the next to roll … I hope so.

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