'I'm fucking sick of you, of the pair of you', says Sal. Why, what have we done? She's going off on her own, she says. Day two of the festival. The long afternoon. We've set up camp at a table in the upstairs hall. It's dark, the floor's sticky.
Is that Jason Molina over there in a cowboy hat? It is. He's with his people. We recognise the guitarist, who played the entire set with a cigarette dangling from his lip. He didn't care about the smoking ban.
Didn't I see Bill Callahan in person a while ago?, W. says. – 'I'll bet you creamed myself'. I didn't cream myself, I tell him. Bill Callahan was shorter than I thought he'd be. He looked tired, jet lagged. – 'How do you think he coped with meeting his ex?', I wonder. For Chan Marshall, Cat Power is playing too. W. says he's not interested in gossip.
What does he think Joanna Newsom is really like? What keeps Bill and her together? W. says I'm an idiot to think about such things. Bill's a lone wolf, I tell W. It won't last. He'll want to be single again. He'll want to be alone again. - 'Shut up, you idiot', W. says. And then, 'Go and get me a drink'.
The afternoon: you need stamina. Pacing. You might feel sleepy, but you should never yield. W. wants a power nap, he says. No power naps, I tell him. Stay awake! Drink! We're at a festival!
Sipping our pints of Guinness, we consider the enigma of Josh T. Pearson. He's living in Berlin, I tell W., and has no intention of recording anything. He's given up recording! He's poor, I tell W. He can only afford to eat one meal a day. He's an illegal immigrant, which means he can't get benefits, I tell W. He can't afford dental work.
His beard's getting longer. His hair's getting longer. He's vowed never to cut it, I tell W. Josh Pearson's never going to cut his hair until the problem of Africa is solved. He's an impressive man, W. says. Josh Pearson thinks only of the suffering in Africa, I tell him, that's what he said an interview. It's very impressive, W. says.
Josh T. Pearson is a one man band. He doesn't need Lift to Experience anymore, we agree. Not when he can stomp his feet for percussion. Not with his array of effects pedals. He can play and sing, that's sufficient, we agree.
He sings of celestial battles, of angels battling demons, of the apocalypse and the end of times. He sings of prophets and messiahs, false and true … He sings of the messianic epoch, says W. He's dreaming of justice. He's dreaming of the redemption of Africa and the redemption of the world.
Josh Pearson! Can we understand what he's become? It's beyond us, we agree. He speaks from inside the burning bush. He speaks from the whirlwind. The battle takes place in his heart. Angels versus devils. Christ versus the Anti-Christ …
He is the bush that burns and God's voice that speaks from the bush. He's the suffering Job and God as he speaks from the whirlwind. And who are we, on our festival afternoon? Idiots, just idiots, says W.
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