What are the kids listening to?, W. says. We need to find out. We're at the festival, Plymouth Gin in our water bottles. The kids are gentle. They drink, like us, through mornings and afternoons, through the evening and the night. They sit on the grass outside their chalets, smoking.
We play them The Texas Jerusalem Crossroads. We tell them about Josh T. Pearson. W. offers an impromptu sermon on apocalyptic Canadian pop. He plays limited edition CDs in handcrafted cases from recording artists he first hears on Last FM. I play them Jandek. I only listen to Jandek, W. tells them. He admires it in me, that consistency.
Sal passes out from drinking, and to wake her up, we play her something from Khartoum Variations, very loud. It'll reach her reptile brain, we agree. Her reptile brain will react in horror. It does. – 'You twats', she says. 'Why did you wake me up?'
We were worried about her, we said. There she was, slumped by the wall, unconscious, and we were too drunk to get off the bed. We couldn't cross the room! We couldn't stand up! And how else were we to reach her?
Sal hates Jandek. – 'Fucking Jandek. I hate him', she says. – 'Lars loves him', says W. – 'Well, he would', says Sal, rolling a cigarette, 'he's a fucking twat'. – 'Don't anger the Sal', W. says to me. And then, 'we have to sober up'. We have to sober up! Our leader, Josh T. Pearson, is playing at midnight.
We have to compose ourselves, we tell Sal, because our leader is playing. – 'He's not my leader', says Sal. And then, 'He better not be like fucking Jandek'. We tell she has to come, but she's too drunk to stand. We're too drunk to stand!, we tell her. Look at us!
We need food! We need to metabolise the alcohol, we decide. We call out to the kids. Bring us some food! The kids ignore us. They're gentle, W. says of the kids, but lazy. – 'Cook something for us, Sal', W. says. – 'Fuck off', says Sal.
Lars Iyer's Blog 