The cheap flight landed. Someone beside him had been served a rancid burger by a caked-up hostess. Fighting past hectic customs and passport regulations, he shrugged at officials, swaggered lightly, saw those guys with signs and placards at arrivals, tilted his black hat and said, 'Bonjour, bonjour' before boarding the train.
Slouching down he thought about Kate Bush. He definitely remembered Sensual World and Red Shoes being played in the family home. Recently he'd watched some old footage of her, admiring the distance between her modest, dimpled interviews and the towering theatricality of her acted persona. It sucked the viewer into her intricate, imaginative cosmos, you were never sure if it were Kate, Cathy or Babooshka singing, fantastical soul-bearing, not close to the bone but a circle of sirens, witch-dancing, wearing glowing necklaces from different ages.
The dark-haired woman wore a white hat to protect her from sunburn, smiled and dipped her daughter's little feet into the emerald-blue sea. The beach was a land of baked bodies, frisbee throws and ice cold showers. He sipped on American coffee from a French cup. The hotel he was staying at had been overtaken by a fashion show.
Locked out of easy security he let himself be lured into Kate Bush's smooth, jazz-calmed reinventions of her songbook. Strange touches shone through restrained consideration, her son's chewed electronic chorals, hollered religious imagery, pure shrieks taking off from a shaded, funk base. Though what really spoke to him was the revealing night memories of This Woman's Work and Moments Of Pleasure. These were pared-down, private recollections, looking at the skyline, lovelorn or free-associating at a piano, allowing the tender details of her life to flood back into focus. And he was relieved she hadn't thought to improve upon the dynamic, distressed glory of Big Stripey Lie.
