Pontaillac, January /February 1986
I should work on my solfege. But there’s “High Meanders” on the radio, like every Friday (late) evening.
Sometimes I hear Virgile’s voice in it; and I don’t know the girl, with that voice made hoarse with cigarette; that I love …
No need to count on me during these two hours; my answering machine is unavailable.
How I try to record, purists would laugh at me… I’ve got only my Walkman, and it’s already better than the old dinosaur Panasonic “block” straight out of the 70s.
The connections that I make are often hazardous, and it happens that on the tapes we find incongruous noises of the outside, a Colin’s fart (even if he denies), doors slamming and one time the flush…
But I want to keep it all so bad, as much as the magazines which pile up dangerously in the dust.
On this cold and endless winter, where sometimes electricity fails because of the storm, I still have my Walkman and the radio , like a friendly presence which reminds me of what I’m in love with.
It is the sound of these long nights where my questions about the life to come grow and accumulate.
From what I remember, “High Meanders” often started with Sisters of Mercy’s “Body and Soul” in an extended version that shaped blue ethereal forms floating over an unreal swamp of darkness.
I knew that , far from the jubilation of sets with David and Alb; Virgile was a melancholic; and you could feel that when he made his programs alone; playlists took the beauty and the depth of his elegiac mood, and blew coldness on the flying time of those two hours.
It happened that however I could hear the others’ presence in what was played, Valentine’s cute temptation with “Under The Milky Way” ; Coquelicot’s fire in “Love Like Blood” and several times in the end , the call of Alb’s desire for rejoicing in a burning version of “Duel” which sounded like a decadent climax after the silver flood of these romantic rivers.
But what fitted the most with the cold darkness of dawning February was this song that Virgile in the end of a broadcast announced. There I could feel all the beauty of his, in “Virus Meadow”
Just recorded, and stolen, only for you who listens to our bizarre volutes…
It is like, in Worcestershire, the mossy humus of a fantastic forest, where the oldest poetry of England ferments and rise again.
Dark and deep roots crawling on grass and ferns, friends , you can barely see them in your candlelight ; but you can hear them whispering tales of a temptation from another age
Suck enchanted nightshade twine
Hear the bells beneath us chime
… And also the trees…
This was “High Meanders” , listener my beloved
Have an inspiring night