We’re getting the old gang back together one more time
for a run (or at least a spirited amble) through the old hits, inspired in part
by an evening spent playing Texas Hold ‘em for high stakes at my house (many a
Picturehouse heir has rued the day they let their piggy bank out of sight on
the occasion of a boys’ night in with the Maxim playing cards) to the soundtrack of a Spotify playlist of fifty or so of the songs I could remember us doing off the top of my head (of which, more later). By the time
we’d got through the second hour of hits we were chatting about the good old
days and how selective memory is really the only kind to indulge in.
Three of us got together the other evening and having
actually remembered most of the chords without recourse to the internet
(although playing YouTube videos from your phone via the big box of witchcraft
in the corner and out through your stereo is a boon in terms of actual
arrangements) we decided to go for it. Wendell sent me a picture to go with the
Facebook announcement of our return which even in such short a time as has accumulated since
we stopped doing this regularly tells a vivid story. There’s me, still hale of hairline and able to crane over my demi-dextrous fret work with nary a care in the world regarding my soon-to-be encompassing male pattern baldness. Kilbey and Wendell haven’t yet graduated to the thick-rimmed hipster glasses they’re now rocking on a daily basis. There’s a set list discarded on the amplifier at the back, tinsel wraps the television which marks one edge of our territory, with the fruit machine delineating the other edge. Is it Christmas? Maybe – perhaps they just forgot to take the decorations down in the New Year. At least they remembered to turn it off for our appearance, which didn’t always happen. All that’s missing is an ashtray.
http://open.spotify.com/user/1163801448/playlist/4bdLXkCgiTu8Qq7mguCVRe
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