Band On The Run

The Man Who Sold The World

When I woke up, I did nothing but groan. In my experience you usually didn’t feel the hangover until you moved, but I wasn’t so lucky. The moment my eyes flickered open against the pillow, it slammed into me.

Dragging in a shaky breath, a familiar taste hit me; cigarettes and alcohol, and not the Oasis song.

When I rolled over, it was a surprise to find myself in my own bed.

With that taste in my mouth, I’d expected to be lying in some hotel room who knows where. But then the memories from the day before came crashing into my head just moments after the hangover.

And man did that make it worse, gripping my hair tightly; I buried my head even deeper into the pillow.

Wake me up when it’s over, please? Just let me sleep through it all, that’d be better. Or maybe I could just go through life like a ghost until this was over. The only problem was wanting to know where I’d wake up when it was all over. Who knew where I’d be when this was all done…

Finally rolling over, I was thankful that the drapes had been closed even though it gave the room a dusty, unlived in appearance; at least it meant that I didn’t have to look into the sunlight quite yet. Actually, I’d be quite happy if it was pouring rain. I’d open my window and just listen to the sound, turning off all the lights in the apartment and just being in the darkness and play an old vinyl. The rain would match my mood.

As I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, I started to wish that I was in a hotel room. That I’d gotten drunk and started smoking in some random city, that people would put it off to the normal pressures of touring.

But this was different. I knew it was different. Everyone knew it was different.

Lifting my hands up above my head, I stared at them, remembering the sensation as the guitar snapped in my hands. It was never an action I took lightly.

I’d broken countless guitars over the years. The first guitar I’d ever broken had been during the first club show I’d ever done, but it hadn’t been done in anger. The way that we’d demolished our stage in those days right after our sets had been in a kind of celebration, it was from joy. It was fun. There were the times that I’d done it in just a fit of passion because it had felt right during the song. And then, of course, there were the times that it had been done in a fit of fury.

Right before the last show The Spares had ever done, we’d been having a horrible sound check. The sound guys were having issues and we sound awful, we were bickering and fighting, not wanting to even touch each other. And finally the tension had just gotten to me beyond repair; I turned around and threw the guitar with everything I possessed. Luckily Seth had just moved moments before or else damage would have been done – though at the time I’d wished it had hit him – and it had slammed into Will’s drum kit, snapping the neck off with one go and sending half his drum kit over. I’d meant to do harmful intent in that moment, and talk about an adrenalin rush.

Yet this was still different. This was much different.

Thinking about smashing the guitar and walking off stage reminded me of the fact that I didn’t even remember anything after getting something harder than a beer. I remembered getting a different bottle and retiring to the back alley where I sat in the typical dank New York alley taking alternate chugs from the bottle and drags from the cigarette in my hand. But after that, there was nothing.

Frowning I looked down at my body, but I wasn’t wearing the clothes of ripped skinny jeans, black Patti Smith shirt and flannel shirt that I’d had on for forty eight hours. I didn’t even remember getting into a cab to get home from the club. But yet hear I was in a pair of pyjama pants and white tank top.