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Miki Byrne

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Watching Jools Holland

I glissandoed out of music far harder
than I crescendoed into it.
I had grasped the fingers of that life
as tightly as I held my cabasa in rhythm.
I only let go as slowly as a drowning man
slides away from his failing rescuer.

I had hurtled into music, dived into gigs.
Rolled in rock and drugs and life was
a paradiddle. I careened from dark till
light and back again.
Days and nights reversed
I sucked up all life had to offer.

Played con passione and then some.
Slept six in a van with last night's makeup
streaking as dawn wiped our faces.
Searched for my toothbrush and clean knickers,
tucked in with the tambourine and guero
to stop the rattle of bells and claves

while I dozed. The drum key was
as precious as gold.
Detuned skins were no good to anyone.
I walked the walk, spent the time,
shuffled the green and broke the blues.
But that was then. Now I watch Jools Holland

and comment on the people doing what I did.
Criticise as they suffer in their masochistic spotlights
and render to shreds the made up musos
of synthetic TV fame.
I sit in vicarious limelight and warm myself
in the heat of someone else's sweaty gig.

 

 

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