I’ve been off the grid for a few days because JD and I have lived it up in Sunny Spain, or as the locals call it, Euskal Herria (they were protesting for independence from their Spanish Oppressors during our stay). We have spent the last few days soaking up rays in Bilbao and San Sebastian, which I can honestly say is one of the most beautiful areas of the world that I have seen in my reasonably well-travelled life.
*cough* humblebrag *cough*
It’s a hard life.
Before I get back to this horrible predicament of salt water and tanning, I just wanted to drop in to let everyone know that I FINALLY SAW RADIOHEAD LIVE. I know, right? I have waited for this moment for over ten years and this week the pieces of the jig-saw fell into place and the final picture was better than I could ever have hoped. They truly are, in my humble opinion, the most versatile and collectively talented band of all time.
Now that I have achieved Ultimate Joy and Complete Perfection at such a tender age, I am troubled. What am I to do for the rest of my miserable life? Let’s face it: it is all downhill from here. Nothing could possibly top seeing Radiohead live. Life has already begun to taunt me. On Tuesday on our flight from San Sebastian to Ibiza (I told you it was a hard life) Vueling Airlines played Radiohead’s Everything Is In It’s Right Place not once, but TWICE. What was life trying to tell me? Is this the end? Everything is in it’s right place? There is nothing left for me to do? But … crawl up and DIE??
I have spent the last few days weighing up my options and I have decided that my only possible hope is to become famous. Not Jersey Shore famous. More like Tom Cruise. Maybe not Tom Cruise. Stephen King? I don’t know. I need to do something that will make me famous enough so that I will receive personal invites to Radiohead concerts and private premiere screenings of P.T. Anderson films for the rest of my life.
Time to start writing that novel…
Alas, I fear I am misguided. I mean, nothing will ever be like that first time I saw Radiohead live last Friday night. I’m not ashamed to admit it.I cried. Just a little. More like shed a tear. An overwhelmed, unprepared and appeased little tear. I was like one of those pathetic teenage girls who fainted at Michael Jackson concerts in the nineties. I don’t care. I understand them now and what they were feeling. Pure, unadulterated and unexpected fulfilment.
Fame won’t bring happiness. It will only dull the senses. Take the glow off everything that made that experience perfection. And so here I am now, in sweltering Ibiza, coming to terms with the rest of the miserable life that is ahead. I know what you’re thinking. How do I do it? How do I manage to live in such horrible conditions? How do I face a life destined for despair and disappointment?
I lie on the beach and let the sun’s rays bronze my skin. Then I decide that, against all odds, I start searching for the pieces to the new puzzle of fulfillment. Carl Cox didn’t quite deliver at Space last night. Maybe David Guetta will do better?
It’s a hard life.