scene of the long extinct Cosmic Music Store, Ipswich Mall circa mid-90's.
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Sometimes on windswept cold evenings when the dying sun is just peeking over the hills I visit the Dreamydays Cemetary in Nostalgiaville and lay a wreath of thanks on the gravestone of my long-lost sadly missed departed friend, the Independent Music Store. Times haven't been the same since his passing, and the big guys that took over his patch once the little guy was out the way are...well...crap. As the saying goes, we like the old stuff better than the new stuff. The days now have no sun, the sun has no warmth. The moon a reflection of lil' ole' me out there in the big dark. Well, I'm lost, 'cause when I talk to folks about other old friends Creedence or Axl or The Beastie Boys and Leonard Cohen, and even Denis Leary with his beautifully crafted song 'I'm an Asshole', they just shrug and say 'Who is that? An old-timey or someone?' I even find myself lost in Rage (the Tele show, not the emotion) of days past singing Beck's hit 'Loser' after so many years of quietly living rent-free in my head because... I am one, because it's true, I have lost something and over time I've realised nine coronas, neither the song nor the bottled Mexican happy-times alternative, are gonna bring it back. The young just prefer watching on their 6.5 inch screens their 1200 pound twerkin' heifers bent over showing their dead fish cut lunches in unwashed thongs along with their hypnotic MK ULTRA IQ 3 repetitive humdrum, thinking musical wonders like Rick Astley are there for a mere punchline to a tasteless Rick-Roll joke, or switch off when other lyrical talents such as Phil Collins come on without realising what a great, great artist he is, a personal favourite. Most painful of all, the music today sounds all too like the twisting, tearing hull of a sinking Titanic. You just want to get the hell as far away from it as you can so you too don't get sucked down with the other victims, and one thing we know about modern music; it sure does suck. You miss seeing your favourite artists newly released album sitting fresh on the rack. The smell of fresh plastic as you tear off the wrapping while drooling over the censorship board's parental advisory warning on your newly purchased Ice T album as if you didn't already know what you were in for. You miss those guitar riffs taking you to a crescendo. You miss those bass drums and synthesizers. You miss it all.
Even the Crow sitting atop of old Great Great Great Grandfather Bartholomew the 3rd's pointed stone burial monument watching you shares your pain, cawing in sombre grief. Then i glance at the grave next and my heart breaks in two though the Philosophy Departments of Harvard and Yale debate whether in fact I have one at all. 'Here lies the Independent Video Store- Second Cousin Twice Removed of the Second Hand Book Shop, also dead. Gone Before It's Time, Never Forgotten. Like other dearly lost friends, sadly missed'.
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I lay down my flowery thistles pinched from a nearby paddock for that long lost friend and sit on the bench as night settles in and, with head in my hands, i begin to cry.