mariaology

God Save the Animals is a classic phrase, haunted by punk royalty and the entropy of petrol leaks in the garden growing flowers. Keep saying god as a speech act for staying, something I’ve always wanted. Being watered by the idea of voice. Like to wake up and in the morning you’re still here, watching over me I’m sleeping in the magazine with the gloss on my face. Like I want pop to shoot me for ecstasy blanks, it’s just who I am. I love it. I love Alex G. Last night I saw him play with Momma at SWG3, Glasgow, and he rattled through the hits in this dancey elemental way of just seducing all of us. No fan heckling bs. Last time I saw him was with D. and S. back in February 2020, time of portent, a delicious and messy set at Saint Luke’s where I said something to N. about the Joker fan club and all the young dudes, I liked being them sort of going insane in the moment before getting really close to the mic and losing everything. I liked being an idiot for Alex’s music. Do good noise.

It gives me this lofi permission to love love songs. Like I’m always stretched out on the bed of that flat in Finnieston I don’t remember the names of clouds just a starfish oversized in my hair I passed around, the starfish, we kept saying the celebrities we looked like vaguely and we listened to 2016. It felt like I could drink all the mysteries and stay sober, purple-lipped in the mirror just excited to get back from washing my hands to talk. There was a big feeling about that gig that was matched by how everyone seemed in this swathe of guitar haze, choose today, watching the little plonk piano riffs kind of imagining the whole thing composed on Casio and you know the sense of it — thrill of what happens when the bedroom sensation is blown up, squared, riven with song. I kept wanting to see what he was doing.

There are rooms where I can’t hang my head
There are tears that I can’t cry
In the years you feel the most alone
You will build the walls I climb

                                                (Alex G, ‘After All’)

These impossible places and water that exists and time folded into them addressing this to god I don’t know but I feel it with angels like sentences themselves are messengers, hi. They have many eyes and the grammar of wings. I’m here, on my tip toes. The plea to save animals is like determined ‘the’ and over there but nevertheless I’m one of them, aren’t you? We’re cowardly and in love with music, so much we climb the walls of it. We’re stronger than water. We’re blood and bone. Climbing all over the walls of each other to say something. I wanted to hold hands through golden trellises ascent to innocence, no bitterness, we had all these years the same thing, it made us children. We grew sideways over the same secret, screaming falsetto.

Break miracles to gold dust and be again.

So much of the gig felt like thanks. Thanks to the named ones and thanks to the animals. Thanks for honesty. There was this weird proggy encore that sucked us back into the sky castles of the past. Earlier, I can’t remember which song it is, but there’s a piano stem that sounds like playing Sims to me. I said to J. “welcome to Pleasantview”. We were all listening to build something, what can I say, looking for tiles through which to place our confusions. I jumped into the Pitchfork review of God Save the Animals, with its red juicy 8.4, and was thrilled to see the article open with a reference to Derrida’s essay The Animal That Therefore I am (More to Follow) – that shower scene with the cat staring back at you. I kind of didn’t realise how many dogs haunt Alex G songs. Feel it all. Thanks to the dogs and cats. A BACKWARDS GOD. You’re cool man. 

I feel like the songs keep me safe. I listened to them lots last year wanting to believe in something over and over again like to remake domesticity in the image of ocean, everything deep below like texts swimming around in the sunlight zone of my dreams, afraid to go further down and darker. You can leave it to me. I crossed fields for you. I called you baby baby. I kept this diary. The fields were kelp and basalt and blessing. I wanted to be in a band where we could use gravity to please listen, gift refrains. Momma the support were ace too. They played Californian indie rock of feeling good and fuck it slacker. I liked the zillennial vibe with the irony and sincerity of quotation at work in the heavy guitars and crushy vocals of mirror fry, having a good time. I’m every virtual scenario. The three-minute frisson is perfect. Still shimmering hyper-economy of Alex’s piano which is movies you watch at three am to make them poem perfect, cast aslant and barely remembered. Right now baby I’m struggling, we’ll see.

I had a copy of Dana Ward’s first collection in my little Work is Over tote, still rain crinkled from weeks ago. The bouncer at SWG3 said he was a bookworm as he searched my bag and approved of the title of Dana’s book like it wholly explained the world. That felt a good omen. This Can’t Be Life! Well, what can it be! Let’s see!