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.
And the gang invited the crowd to join them on stage, gave over their microphones and instruments, until the whole room was at one. A sense of warmth pervaded the club, smirks and sweat, much laughter and delight.
The customer lay on his front, head and back covered in sharp little needles. He breathed through the hole, the acupuncturist said goodbye. Listening to muzak from the Himalayans, he flexed the mind to Slow Motion. How many times had he played that song? The weightless key changes, basic beats and lulling chorus of it's counting, counting, counting mesmerised him. Something so elemental, so cleanly imagined, yet impenetrable, beyond specific meaning. A distant thought, babble language lost in harmony. An arch, a fall, stridency rising to the surface, overtaken by splintered submergence into repetition. 
Exceptionally beautiful and an exciting, emotionally charged actress; A Place In The Sun, Suddenly Last Summer, Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf, Secret Ceremony.
When your a bit down at the mouth it's always a good idea to put on Room On Fire. What Ever Happened is medicinal, makes you wanna dance, makes you feel anything is possible. Is This It has maybe been overplayed, First Impressions Of Earth is slightly bloated, but Room On Fire is still pretty fun. That tight angularity, Casablancas' drop-dead 'doing you a favour' delivery, a sense of casual decadence. Today I've been playing Angles which follows on from Casablancas' underrated, 80's new-wave indebted Phrazes For The Young. There ain't many killer songs, though it sustains a playful spirit of glacial intrigue. Blondie here, sweet Jesus, Thin Lizzy there. Steve Miller baby. Chiselled, densely woven, fine-tuned, everything defined with upmost care. And there's an intimate, delicately structured ballad, Call Me Back, which fractures the ebullient mood. Outside my window I can see the early bloom of spring.
Marianne Faithfull is a sharp cookie these days. Writing frank memoirs, refusing to share bottles of wine with interviewers, she's well-aware of her iconic status. Though it wasn't always like this. In the sixties she was determined to live as recklessly as the boys and was punished by the outdated system. So this lovely-looking, searching young woman turned to self-destruction. Her Ophelia is perfect; narcissistic, vulnerable and grimly compliant in her own downfall. The comeback was legendary, Broken English and Strange Weather remain haunting and emotive albums, she was croaky and cool, singing words of defiance and hurt regret.
I was talking to a wonderful painter. While ago. Playing an SYR in the background. He said, 'Ah, this reminds me of Stockhausen.' As an art teacher he'd played Stockhausen for the schoolchildren in his class and their work had gained freedom and courage. Lines became more spontaneous, colours more daring.