six pm, we arrive in a flush. the kills wont be on til nine. time don’t give a shit. an hours left for wandering around. ice cream shops & vintage stores. lychee in a cup, overpriced nineties band tees. i get mistaken for a londoner.
eight pm, back at webster hall. tickets & ids. foreign boys who get stood up, merch girls who take the longest breaks ever. the wait is here. still standing for minutes more. alexa chung is over there too, a few bodies down, as impatient as we are. its over. hotel on the left, vv on the right. their chemistry turning me on from feet away. the way they move, the way they stare. the nicotine sting, the flashes, the screams. go home it’s over.
back to the merch table. we get the last two. the tee i’ve been living in ever since. back onto the street, we circle the block, light up & circle again. we decide cigarettes are better after shows than after sex. we wait. fans come & go. vague conversations. one comments on the fact that i look “quite like róisín murphy”. we wait. one roadie chatted up & we’re invited to the afterparty. he wears a single earring, has a british accent. “we’re all meeting up again at the annex. give me your names - i’ll put you on the list.” sore feet, never ending walks under those fluorescent lights & starry skies. iphone maps & drunk partiers’ surprisingly helpful directions & we’re there; the east village, the annex, finally. no smoking inside. the doors open; jessica stam, alison mosshart & the boyfriend. jessica turns to alison - “what?” alison -“oh my boyfriend was just admiring what a nice ass you have. he’s gone too far.” they giggle drunkenly over to us. the same stoop we’re enjoying our own marlboro menthols on. they sit. i try not to listen in on much more of their conversation. texts to twitter, i cant believe this. ashes fall, butts left on the ground. back inside. kate must be here somewhere. a little while later & there they are again. a tap on jamie's shoulder, a squeeze on mine. flash. compliments passed between alison & i, a kneel to my level, her raven hair in my face. we’ve perhaps had one too many vodkas & juices. flash. polaroids with the kills. its close to three am. i’ve been up twenty six hours. no money for cabs, we walk back, back down to the subway. i’m still dreaming, spinning on my feet. the city & the pity of it. hotel home. a shower. band tee makes for a grunge nightie. i’m sleeping, still spinning.
may 3nd, 2009
back into the rain, under beautiful polluted skies. soho, sunday streetmarket; a new favourite ring, a new stock of pashminas. greenwich is next. we pass the mercer street, rain like daggers coming down on us. we pose by the streetsign, its become somewhat of a tradition now. blocks pass. still pouring. the brown paper bag, soaked, bleeds black ink, leaving topshop smudges on my highwaisted shorts & favourite canvas bag. a few record shops for shelter, the first knife album bought for later. goldfrapp found amongst sharpie written, fingerprint stained dividers of cds once loved more. lush green grows from damp brick. bleeker street.
marc’s on every corner. we visit each one. tricky tricky plays, a singalong, a phonecall home. with the asphalt finally drying, umbrellas are in. alexa’s harpers bought in another dodgy corner cigarette shop. the dodgier the better. we drop into the hummus place. lunch; moroccan mint tea, cucumber tomato salad, hummus smashed with egg, the traditional way. we never knew hummus could be so good. over a rose flan, we talk the last bit of sun away, clichéd snapshots of us taken by us.
only hours remain, one last nyc coffee run. a windowseat, more chats, more snaps. back to midtown, to the pod. luggage picked up & stuffed, bursting with purchases. the e train, one taken west, one taken east, farewell my black balloon. alone on the train again, each subway stop a reminder, the further i’m dragged away. manhattan a blur. jfk again, a weighted balenciaga on sore shoulders. i rush, no need, i’m early, i won’t be sleeping in baggage claim this time, i’ve no extra night. i collapse, a single hour left to go. a few notes in a notebook, outfits to remember. a postcard wrote with love. the city misses you. the florescent lights smaller from above, from that tiny airplane window. it left its sting, the nicotine, this is what new york used to be.
photos by me & tyler's iphone
scanned polaroids of me with vv & hotel to come next