from the first night to the last

from the first night to the last, your language was the rose
the red one, real and insane, foreign to me, soon familiar
in Paris you’d wait for the Indian man wandering into the bar
with his armful of colors
you went for red no matter what
later you bemoaned the roseless New York dives
though it never stopped you 
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My first L.A. gig

mw

“My first LA gig was me solo with a guitar at a little bar called Goldfingers, I was opening for a band called The Warlocks and the show was booked by Joel Gion of the Brian Jonestown Massacre, this was early 2000’s and the only person who came to see me was this incredible songwriter called Elliott Smith. I met him at a bar and we became friends and he showed up to my first gig.
He was seeing like four girls when I met him. Jen, some blong girl, some girl Michelle and then he went to Valerie.”
Dexy Valentine

Sunday mornings when you know

ladiesdcs

“Sunday mornings when you know you should get up and get dressed. Do all the things on your to do list. But all you wanna do is stay in bed. Obsess about what coulda been. Put on all those songs that remind you of him. His presence is unwanted and you are feeling haunted. By eyes that no longer exist. You pound on your head with closed fists. Until you fall back asleep. And find respite in your dreams.”

Michelle

I worked with him on From a Basement on the Hill

what

“I worked with him on From a Basement on the Hill, befriended him, and helped him put together the pieces of the torment he carried with him in his jigsaw puzzle of a heart in order to transmute it into peaceful wholeness (…) Because I knew Elliott as I did, my account is a personal one, not a musicological or psychological one, and I vividly remember the first time I met him. Continue reading

and the quiet madness of who we were that spring

 

“and the quiet madness of who we were that spring
exposed and frail, caught unawares
“more and again”. we could keep that promise.
ten years. one week. days all the same. time, changing us.
what else could i give you? i called and told you that, and you whispered “thank you”,
like you had done before, like you would do again
for all we left unsaid never stopped haunting you
these ten years like some sacred insult
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