The Place We All Go To
The place I am now has fantastic skies, looking West towards Camden.
I heard today about the death of DJ Tommy Vance - real name Rick West - here's a nice biography of him with some soundfiles, my favourite of which is called 31 Days In May. Go listen. What a fabulous voice he had. Tommy was "first English D.J. to broadcast on a USA radio station" so he claimed. With a voice like that, who would disagree?
I sit staring at the gorgeous site of sun fanning golden fingers through clouds 3 miles from here, "huge girders of light arriving from space", IG called them. Tommy has just left the building. Tommy's 21 grams have vanished. He has breathed his last. He is an ex-Tommy.
Why is the parrot sketch so funny? Because it is about death. Taboo subjects always heighten our tension and make easy meat of us for clever carnivorous comedians.
Why tension? The unknown. Death is the limit. Of understanding. Of consciousness. Of Us. Or is it? We just don't know. This is the Big One. The big
We laugh because it's scary. Not. Knowing. What. Lies. Beyond.
The place we go - maybe we don't go anywhere. Or maybe we do. Nobody can ever really say. Is death the beginning of a journey, or is it the end of one? Or isn't it?
Or do we just end up in Camden?
I am aware I am not making much sense, but today, frankly, I don't give a damn. Neither am I feeling morbid, or in any way morose. Instead, after a fabulous gig last night, remaining in high spirits until 4.30 am, spending all morning with my gorgeous girlfriend, and a chilled Sunday lunch with an old friend who has dropped in from Canada, I am musing about the place we all go to.
And it IS, in fact, Camden - look it up on the map. Tommy Vance told me. He's there right now, talking with Elvis and Jimi and Janis.
If anyone ever asks you (and parents, this especially applies to you) you must tell them, "Camden, that's where we all go when we die."
We go to Camden and we buy clothes.