Review Summary: The following is the only piece of literature known to man with the word "girt" in it bar the Australian national anthem.7 of 8 thought this review was well written
He’s finally up. Fuc
k his head hurts. It really
hurts. Last night was huge. He doesn’t remember any of it, but he knows it was huge by the size of the throbbing in his head. He tells himself that he’ll never do that again. He gets up from his mate’s couch and manages to pick his way falteringly through the wreckage of the living room.
God what the fuc
k did I do
He makes himself a double shot of espresso. The sound of the grinder nearly kills him. Padding his way upstairs to the bathroom, he notices a discarded CD case lying on the landing. Alwaysnever. Cool cover.
Aah that’s better. He dries himself with a slightly mildewy towel. It’s the best he could find. He looks for a change of clothes.
Probably shouldn’t have looked in the bedroom at this time. Doesn’t matter just keep your clothes from last night. Time to go-OWCH.
It’s not too bad, just a few small cuts. Aw man the plastic’s all cracked and shi
t. If I take it, he’ll probably never notice. Yeah that’s a good idea.
He’s walking home (it’s only a couple blocks); his foot hurts and he’s freezing his balls off. He probably shouldn’t have spent the car fund on that Phuket holiday with the girlfriend. Don’t think about that bitch now, you’ll only depress yourself. There are basically no leaves left on the trees, and the ones on the ground are fast losing their burnt lustre.
At home he sits down. He stays there for about an hour just sitting, almost making a point of not doing anything. It’s not like he has anything to do. He decides to go wash up properly, with a proper towel. He springs to his feet.
Postural Hypotension. His head swims and his vision dims at the sides. You idiot, why’d you get up so fast.
When he opens his eyes his head is resting on the cracked CD case. He suddenly wants to hear it. He spends a good half hour sifting through junk until he finds his Discman (he doesn’t have a computer anymore). His head STILL hurts like hell. He runs to the toilet and is sick.
He brushes his teeth with his headphones on. He doesn’t play the music yet though. He gets into some comfortable clothes: baggy pants, a loose-fitting shirt and a big jacket. He opens the door and presses play, then he walks.
“Ms. Connection” gets into his head. The soft crooning vocals girt by fluffy guitar blanket him. Everything is soft. The percussion is soft, the guitar wails are soft, the chords are soft. Electronic notes dapple the soundscape as he walks. It’s cold but he doesn’t really mind anymore. He keeps listening, walking. Guitar melodies are so catchy that he immediately walks in time with their rhythm. Swirling falsettos wind their way around these melodies, and jangly strumming can be faintly heard in the background. The atmosphere is so relaxed. He finds himself not smiling, but rather slackening. He veers off his path as the violins in "P.S." begin. As the electronic wailings in the background and violin melodies exchange sonic prominence, their weavings are punctuated by sparse percussion and guitar pickings. Catchy guitar fuzz signals the end of the song and also – fittingly – of his walk.
He sees an old swing hanging from a tree branch over orange leaves. Deciding that would be overly cliché of him, he instead opts for a park bench. As the melancholy piano begins he doesn’t close his eyes either, he just sort of looks - at trees, at the ground, at the woody textures in the bench or the different patterns people’s shoes have made in the muddy ground. The piano is joined by vocals and bubbling electronic sounds, and eventually by percussion. The music suddenly halts and his breath catches.
As the music comes to a climax nothing tremendous happens. The vocals get louder and higher and the instruments more substantial until it’s over. His head doesn’t hurt anymore. His foot doesn’t either. He's fine with his life at the moment. He’s not worried about the broken CD case, nor troubled by all that girl shi
t. At this point he doesn't mind not going anywhere.
He’s all good man. It’s cool. Everything’s cool.