Listen along here
It starts with violence.
Or something that feels like violence but is, in fact, just my own body protesting its own existence.
Knees, hips, shoulder, back.
They’re all at it.
Moments prior, a combination of Aphex Twin and my phone vibrating against the bedside table rouses me from a warm, usually peaceful slumber and into the cold, dark world of consciousness.
I wobble with clumsy inevitability out of the bedroom, trying to be quiet. Using the wardrobe as a balance aid, its door slams against the frame.
Not quite quiet after all.
My balance is all to cock until my Achilles gets limber. Oh yeah—Achilles tendonitis.
Another ailment.
Another sign that I’m now the “wisdom” element of the “your wisdom, our youth” anthem gifted to us by Fig 4.0. The closest thing they—or any of us—had to a hit single. My gateway into the band.
I wouldn’t be so arrogant as to claim wisdom, though.
Wizened? Yes.
Wise? Not quite.
I must perform my morning ablutions, but not before checking what’s happening in the world.
The Be Fair group chat has unread messages.
The headline: the laptop has died, and with it, the demos we’ve been working on.
RIP MacBook. We hardly knew ye.
The mood is morose.
I choose an uncharacteristically positive route. I liken the plight of our work to Robocop.
Alex Murphy’s been shot, alright—but we can build him back.
Better.
Maybe.
As the nights get longer and the temperature drops, the temperature of my shower rises.
Up to a point, anyway.
Soon it’ll reach the maximum my skin can tolerate.
I’m under no illusion—it contributes to my dry skin.
I have a lotion for that: Palmer’s Cocoa Butter Massage Lotion for Stretch Marks.
The horse has bolted on the stretch marks, but this hydrates and nourishes like nothing else.
Washed.
Dried.
Moisturised.
Deodorised.
Dressed.
Thick socks. Warm socks. Essential.
I am ready.
I say my goodbyes to Sarah, still wrapped warm in the duvet. Still and warm. She’s in that place halfway between sleep and cognizance—a kind of lucid somnambulism.
I do my best to conceal my envy as I head out.
The motion-controlled lights in the vestibule awake with a harshness that strips away the final shreds of rest.
My headphones are on before I reach the bottom of the stairs, and I walk headlong into the frigid air as the opening notes of the first song on today’s playlist make their way through my head.
I’m a prolific playlist compiler.
Today’s is an attempt to ease into the day with a sprinkle of serotonin.
The synth kicks in.
Not aggressively, not obnoxiously. Just enough to say: this isn’t your dad’s punk.
Unless your dad was into Devo.
Or had a soft spot for Kraftwerk.
Mine didn’t. He was more of a Dire Straits man.
I cross the road with the gait of someone unsure if their knees are going to cooperate.
They do.
Eventually.
The cold air bites at my face. Good job I moisturised.
Giant Eagles make synth-driven Ramones-core. That synth adds variety to a genre that, by design, sticks to a tried-and-true formula.
It’s dark, and according to my watch, will remain so until 07:42. I’m at least 90 minutes away from daylight.
There are no signs of life this morning.
Occasionally I’ll see a fella on his bike, decked out in hi-vis.
I don’t know if he’s going home to bed or off to work.
Neither his expression nor his cadence give much away.
Maybe he has the day off.
Maybe he’s already where he needs to be.
No signs of life.
The birds have nothing to sing about this morning.
Airstream Futures provide comfort and familiarity as I round the corner onto Bridgegate.
Criminally underrated.
The wind blows right down the centre, as if guided precisely along the white lines.
No windbreak.
No reprieve from the bitter cold.
I check my transport links.
The bus is on its way.
The train is allegedly on time.
We’ll see.
This isn’t a morning to be stood still.
I pace near the bus stop.
The GPS tracking is never accurate enough to trust.
Keep the legs moving.
Keep the blood pumping.
Jet8 have riffs.
Jet8 have brass.
Jet8 have melodies.
I see the yellow light of the bus’s destination sign reflected in a shop window.
A moment later, it appears.
The first bus of the day.
Two minutes late.
The playlist pauses while I board.
It’s warm inside.
Just me and the driver.
We aren’t ones for chit-chat.
The playlist resumes.
Jet8 gives way to Tilt—a collection of sounds that, even after 30 years, I’m still not tired of.
Then there were three.
A fellow passenger joins the party.
I think he works for the council.
I’ve never thought to ask.
We aren’t ones for chit-chat.
We enter Airmyn as Neckscars begin.
The man who walks his dog always waves to the driver, regardless of who it is.
Same spot every morning.
There’s comfort in routine, even if the characters are recast.
I’m not quite prepared for Tape It Shut.
Their urgency and ferocity catch me off guard.
I’m immediately transported to an evening in Oldham.
We shared a bill with them, and during their set, a middle-aged man in a Specials t-shirt took umbrage with their thoughts on Nigel Farage.
A fairly uncontroversial perspective—especially for a DIY punk gig in a working-class area.
I’ve never been able to shake the fact he was wearing a Specials t-shirt.
Perhaps he isn’t really a lyrics guy.
Just likes the beat.
I’m in need of caffeine.
I rarely drink coffee, though.
Soy milk and pumpkin spice syrup is the only combination I enjoy.
The hipster/basic bitch paradox.
There’s nowhere open in Goole at this hour that can provide me with that, so it’ll be a can of Monster.
Sugar-free—because it’s bad enough without punishing the pancreas this early.
Tesco it is. I say my goodbyes to the driver. He is fully conscious and I do not envy him.
We aren’t ones for chit-chat.
A continuation of the energy and pep provided by Tape it Shut is required – The bus was late after all – It’ll have to be a tight 2 minute in and out job. Darko answer my call and provide exactly what it is that I need.
Focus.
In.
Out.
Carbonated, caffeinated beverage. Dayglo green can—perhaps hinting at the future luminescence of my urine once it’s been imbibed and filtered through my kidneys.
Self-checkout only at this hour.
I’m doing someone out of a job.
But I’ll need a staff member to confirm I’m old enough to buy the caffeine-laced beverage in the dayglo green can.
Keeping someone in a job.
Parity.
Balance.
It has been a long time since anyone asked to see my ID. A glance is all that is required.
Old enough to make the purchase.
Old enough to know better than to be buying Monster energy drinks. I still do it though.
06.49. Less than an hour til daylight. Less than 10 minutes to make it to the platform for the train.
Here comes the pretzels. The Fight Back Mountain song that makes its way onto many a playlist of my creation. It’s a utility song.
I mean this in the best possible way.
No matter the mood or task, it almost always fits.
I cut a line across the car park and onto Pasture Road. The train station glows like a beacon. Drawing me closer. I’m drawn.
Not out of choice.
Nobody chooses records management.
Down the underpass. Up the stairs.
The train is delayed.
The wind now follows the train tracks, bellows down the platform, and nips at my hind.
I’m at my usual spot. Parallel to the vending machine on platform 2. A vending machine I’ve never used.
I checked the prices once.
Message received.
Too rich for my blood.
Warhead begins as the headlamps of the train reflect on the rails. I don’t think I’m punk enough to be a ‘proper’ UK Subs fan. I could wear the t-shirt and the bobble hat. I’d soon get rooted out as a phoney.
I don’t think I would ever want to be punk enough for anything.
It seems exhausting.
I still love the Subs though.
For a moment I’m in Manchester watching them support Bad Religion.
I’d gone with my brother.
We got talking to a fella down at the barrier. He was there with his sons.
He was three sheets to the wind and necking Guinness.
I gave him my Warhead pin badge.
It was heart-warming and life-affirming and all the things that going to punk shows can be.
We were ones for chit-chat that night.
I’m no longer in Manchester.
The train pulls in.
The doors of the first carriage are perfectly in line with where I am stood.
Parallel to the vending machine.
I’ve done this before.
I’m a veteran.
5 days a week.
The more bridges you cross, the more you learn about bridges.
I’m boarding the delayed 06.59 train to Sheffield.
Same seat every trip.
A mostly familiar cast of characters. We share a carriage most mornings. We aren’t ones for chit-chat.
There’s comfort in routine, even if the characters are recast.
I’m situated as Uzis Akimbo begins.
I am once again caught off guard.
The snare bores a hole into my brain.
Not literally.
Actual female representation in hardcore. I find the macho, hyper-masculine bravado of hardcore absurd for the most part.
It’s refreshing and welcome to hear a voice different to that of the usual hardcore beatdown fare.
A brief adjournment as the conductor checks my ticket. I press my card to the underside of the ticket machine.
It takes just long enough to read to make the act feel slightly awkward.
Which in turn makes me feel slightly awkward.
The train crawls into Doncaster.
More board.
Less alight.
There’s not an empty seat in the carriage. Wolf like me erupts as the train leaves Doncaster station. I find TV on the Radio fascinating. Genre defying. Unique. Special.
This cover is assuredly punk rock. The exceptionality of the song is retained. There is a reverence for the song that Wolf-Face adhere to. They respect the song. I respect their interpretation.
The sky has lightened. Not by a lot. Today will be a day where the sun is veiled behind a bank of dense black cloud for the duration. When I imagine a day in October I imagine a day like today. I am whisked off to a similar October day.
Circa 1989.
It is still dark when I get to school. I am in Mrs Dean’s class at Dronfield infant school. My best friend is Nicky Mason. We both like wrestling. I still do.
Wet play time.
She tells us about Terry Waite. The tale tailored to our 5 or 6 year old comprehension of the world.
I cannot comprehend Lebanon.
It must have made an impression. It is too specific for me to have made it up. Surely?
Not impossible.
Just unlikely.
I hurtle forwards in time when the next song begins.
I am in Joseph’s Well, Leeds.
Summer.
Circa 2006.
The first time I hear -and see- The Dauntless Elite. We were spoiled. We didn’t appreciate it at the time.
We seldom ever do.
The scene in and around Leeds at that time was truly special.
Bombed Out releases sold in Out of Step.
Out of Spite weekender.
Our anthems.
Meadowhall looms in the distance. Monolithic.
A distance that is closing.
More alight.
Less board.
The platform at Meadowhall bathed in a sickly yellow artificial light.
Jaundice yellow.
The penultimate stop coincides with Flares by Love Forty Down.
Choose the bear.
Not all men. But far too many. Normalise not behaving like a predator.
Is it too much to ask?
I’m tired.
Tired of being perpetually filled with a melancholy Weltschmerz. Another story. Another man.
Always a man.
Always another.
I have the luxury.
If I’m alone I don’t have to change my route home.
I don’t perform a risk assessment. I hate that it is this way for those that do not share this luxury.
Sheffield.
On the river Sheaf.
The train terminates here.
It will be returning from whence it came.
There and back again.
Everyone alights. The passengers file their way up the stairs. Onto the concourse.
Then disperse.
I’m partway into the verse of The Disco before the Breakdown as I exit the station.
Out the front.
The water features feature no water—save the remnants of last night’s frost.
I evangelise the 3 tracks on the disco before the Breakdown EP to anyone who will listen.
3 tracks. 9 minutes. Near perfection.
The pathway leading away from the station is slick. Damp autumn leaves.
The council’s baffling choice of paving slab.
Aesthetic. Impractical.
My choice of footwear. Less than optimal.
I am unbalanced.
No wardrobe within arm’s reach.
There is a less treacherous route.
The edge of the fountain. I am not the only one on this course.
They have done this before.
We are all veterans.
Uphill. Everywhere is uphill.
It is as bright as it is going to get. My altitude steadily increases.
Uphill past the Howard.
I reach the university as the disco before the breakdown concludes.
No students. No thirst for knowledge at this hour.
My fellow commuters continue to scatter.
At what point does the commute end?
Am I discernible from a city dweller?
As I ascend the 36 stairs that connects Eyre Street to the Peace Gardens I am alone. I am at peace.
I crest the hill. Uphill. Football, Etc’s Safety begins.
I am here for it.
It is in contrast to everything that came before.
It soothes my soul.
Approximately 43 miles have been traversed. I could count the distance left to travel in feet and inches.
I won’t.
But I could.
Corporate architecture.
Glass.
Steel.
Concrete.
Brutal.
Cold.
In stark contrast to the final moments of Safety.
The final moments of the playlist.
The final moments before I enter the office.
Employment.
Play a part.
Plaster on a smile.
Exchange pleasantries.
Entertain the smalltalk. Not small enough.
I’m not one for chit-chat.
Nine hours to go.
Eight hours and fifty-nine minutes to go.
But who’s counting?
