Yes, I’m excited. Man, Tracyanne & Danny are coming to town!
Yes, I’m nervous. I might not have any musicians to play with, I may need to use a backing tape of violin loops and distortion behind my spoken word travelogues and music hall slippage. I may need to lay myself bare, throw myself upon the mercy of the crowd. I may need to tell the story of Daniel Johnston, of nights spent wandering between ashtrays in Chicago and Detroit, of too many days avoiding the sun and the weekend. I may need to recite poetry. I may need to sing.
I will almost certainly need to try hard, harder than I have tried in a lifetime of never trying hard enough. Now you tell me. Why shouldn’t I be nervous?
Yes, I’m concerned. Tracyanne’s old band Camera Obscura were special for me and Charlotte alone, a band that we could – and did – listen to together a lot, as we both loved their pathos and romantic sweep and sun-kissed string section and love for classic 1960s B-sides and Mrs Beeton’s everyday cooking. Charlotte and I have been divorced for six months now. I am concerned that hearing Tracyanne’s voice (in particular) live might prickle tears where right now I try to pretend tears do not exist. Obviously Tracyanne & Danny are way different to Camera Obscura, but this possibility remains, very real.
Yes, I’m a little awed. The Tracyanne & Danny album is one of my most played this year and it has soundtracked many a solitary train journey and rushed car ride, many an empty afternoon spent wasting away in the depths of loneliness in Haywards Heath, the overwhelming emotion being one of shock. Not awe. Just shock, delayed reaction. Other people have their Ed Sheerans and Red House Painters and that is fine. Bless them. This is not what I look for in music, not when I seek solace and reassurance and some form of comfort. I am looking for voices that can transport me out of this mess, this delayed shock – pure and open and laden with understanding. Voices that understand the secret history of The Pastels. I am looking for Tracyanne & Danny. Both singers, all their songs.
Why the hell wouldn’t I be awed, at the prospect of being the support act for all this? You tell me.
Gotta love a bit of slide guitar, of melancholy blues, an easy way around a vocal.
Note for aspiring blog writers: write, not because you have to, but because you want to. Just write. Not feeling up to writing? Write anyway. Write every second of the day, if you can. Just write.