A love that blooms from the seeds of the blues was always destined for failure. Late nights. Gaslight. Whiskey and distortion.
You sit in the crowd and watch him as he plays, illuminated by the flickering adoration of the tea lights nestled safely in the cracks of the sandstone wall.
In that moment he is everything you ever wanted. He is reckless abandon. He is never being asleep before midnight. He is free scotch. Cheap pool. London & New York. He is 1969.
In amongst the minor chords and skinny boys you make your way to him. He sings along to Oasis. He knows more than just the names of the girls at the bar.
In the taxi ride home a beaten up case lies between you both, containing his Sunburst salvation. You know he’ll always love her more than you. Still you try your best to move him.
And so it all unfolds as these things often do.
The boy plays on. But now the whiskey is bitter and the distortion serves only to mutilate your memory of his discordant gaze.
The girls come forth and multiply like a raging virus.
And you stand still as loneliness and self-pity engulf you like the throbbing, ceaseless echo of a song everyone’s heard but nobody knows the words to.
It’s time to turn another Jimmy Page.
Fall in love with an accountant next time.