Thurston Moore was becoming tired of being told what he should or shouldn’t do in the band. He began to give serious thought to going his own way. Lee was always on his case these days at rehearsals – “Hey, Thurston, turn it down a bit, mate. I can’t hear myself think!” He was sure that he had caught Steve giggling about some of his lyrics on more than one occasion. As for Kim, well the moaning didn’t stop at the studio door. At home she constantly nagged him. “Thurston, the yard needs sweeping.” He despised the way that when they were alone she would no longer speak in her hot NY accent, but let it drop for something that sounded quite foreign and guttural and ugly to him; Welsh, possibly. On top of this she never came near him and insisted that he sleep on the sofa.
He spent the rehearsal worrying about his guitar playing. I suppose he was developing something of a complex about it. While the rest of Sonic Youth shattered the studio air he found himself more and more so sat on the floor tuning and retuning his guitar or playing quietly on a GameBoy in the corner near the Coke machine. He realised at last that he was in danger of being squeezed out of his own band. So, maybe it was time to jump before he was pushed…
Cath S has a market stall at Tynemouth. She sells blue, french denim boiler suits – exclusively! That’s it! Just boiler suits. She has cleverly pegged a dozen or so up on a clothesline, creating a section where people can go and try them on in privacy. I decide that I might try some on. But I remind myself that I must get a small one if I decide to buy one as I am fed up with clothes that don’t fit.
Jayne L is doing the rounds, visiting everyone before she leaves for Australia. She has heard that the Communist Party are making great inroads out on the west coast. Also, Jeremy Corbyn, it turns out, is a keen surfer, too. She arrives at the flat with a large brown paper package (yes, tied up with string) and dressed in the pale blue 1950s summer dress that she used to wear a lot when we first met. Her hair is hennaed and bound in the red scarf that she favours. She looks amazing.
The package turns out to be for me, so I unwrap it. It is a pile of neatly folded pieces of material. We spread them out on the carpet. They are silver and gold squares, and each one has, embroidered into the centre, a series of tiny, concentric lines. These turn out to be grooves.
Jess C is in the other room. She is playing records on an old Hacker turntable. I gather up the sheets of material and take them through as I realise that they can be played on the record player. When the cuts of cloth are draped over the Hacker and the needle dropped onto them they all play Bob Marley’s Chances Are – which, apart from being quite a feature for a piece of material, strikes me as very clever and apt!