kagablog

there is always 1 person. @ every show. there is always 1 person, he or she, who thinks he or she is more important than the other fans who stand in line 2 have their cds autographed. there is always 1 person after every show who tries 2 draw u into an endless conversation, who pretends 2 know all your old friends, who imagines he or she looks cool talking 2 u, monopolizing your attention, imagining that out of all the people who listen 2 your music, read your books, etc, he or she is the 1 person u have been waiting all your life 2 meet, the 1 person u as a star is really interested in.

there is always 1 of these ass-holes @ every concert. sometimes 2. of course u cant imagine what theyre thinking when they do that. dont they realize they r making your job that much harder? how fuckin egocentric can 1 get?

that is y u hate your guitar. or, 2 b more accurate, u hate the box it lives in, that fuckin black coffin of dead notes. u hate the music. or perhaps not so much the music itself @ all the paraphernalia of the music. all the fucking black boxes and black wires and steel implements & the sound desks & amplifiers & kombis full of stuff. & the driving @ night, & the hotel rooms.

no, actually the hotel rooms r fine, the hotel rooms r the best bit, provided youre alone, completely alone after the show, with no-one hanging around requesting 1 more song just 1 more song pleezzz. the hotel rooms r gates 2 eternity, meditation chambers, little holy holes of privacy, body shells, cubic bibles, salvation, the hotel rooms r where u go when hell has spent itself & the sound crew has packed up & gone home & the drunken fans have left 4 another club or afterparty 2 get drunk some more. the hotel rooms are where u pen down notes like these 2 retype later on your computer @ home with proper punctuation. the hotel rooms rooms r where u can do what u like, think what u like, breathe what u like, & where the only thing u have 2 avoid is the bathroom mirror. who wants 2 b confronted with an ageing rock star in the mirror after an exhausting evening of acting like an ageing rock star 4 fucks sake? not u!

the box your guitar lives in has a lot of airport stickers on it that says fragile. they r pink. some r more faded than others. your guitar box loves flying but your guitar hates it, that’s y it hides inside the box with eyes shut tight every time the box boards a plane decorated with yet another pink fragile sticker. your guitar never intended 2 get famous. in the beginning, all your guitar wanted 2 do was 2 get strummed & stroked, softly, like a cat, alone in a room full of books & flower vases & stuff. your guitar never envisaged so many sweaty bodies chanting the names of the songs it had written all by itself. your guitar is shy. your guitar is made of soft wood & shaped like a young girl. your guitar does not enjoy being gang-raped every night by drunk madmen. your guitar wants 2 exist 4 her own sake, art 4 arts sake, music pleasing itself like goldfish breathing & existing in a bowl. your guitar yearns 4 self-respect & a quiet life. your guitar has secret ambitions 2 become a science fiction paperback novelist. your guitar wants 2 settle down & get married or old or both. your guitar yearns 4 the state of blissful inexperience she used 2 know when she was still a tree in the forest. that state of being is gone 4ever now, only dreamt of & half-remembered. your guitar knows 2 much. your guitar is a recovering alcoholic. but not really recovering in the strict sense of the word, because people still insist on buying her drinks. your guitar wants 2 get a life but she is prevented from doing so by the constant and unasked4 interference of 1000s of strangers she has never met be4.