matter
how many times it had been dry cleaned, it still smelt, when heated above a certain temperature by Tarquin’s body, sweating under the stage lights, of stinky dog and hare blood. The young men
were all quite used to their suits by now and barely noticed each other’s odours, but eager journalists rushing to interview them as they came offstage had often been noticed to rear their
heads back and inhale as little as possible once they took in the full whiff of the four Ormond members in their damp hot tweeds.
My love’s ungiven, my wings are straw
I dip my heart into your life
My waterfall of tears will soar
Seahorses steal my promised wife
For dreams can fade where there is stri – eye – ife . . .
Tarquin sang, and a great many people in the field below the stage, who would have commented, ‘But what the fuck does that even
mean
?’ if they had seen the
words written down, sang along with him with as much conviction as if his lyrics were a Shakespeare sonnet set to music. Tarquin’s exquisite tenor voice, together with the melodic cadences of
the tunes written by Lance and Elden, elevated the nonsensical words into a sort of broken poetry while sung – with the caveat that as soon as you actually stopped for a moment to ask why
seahorses would want to steal anyone’s wife, the whole edifice would tumble like a house of cards.
‘God, talk about the Emperor’s New Clothes!’ Milly Gamble, Tarquin’s actress girlfriend, watching from the wings, shouted in her friend Eva’s ear. ‘This one
makes even
less
sense than the last one!’
‘It’s like poetry,’ Eva protested. ‘I know what he
means . . .
’
‘You’re so nice, Eves,’ Milly yelled accurately, if patronizingly. ‘You never have a bad word to say about anyone!’
‘I do!’ Eva was piqued. ‘I’m sure I do.’
‘I don’t mean slagging off factory farming or supermarkets or Third World work conditions,’ Milly shouted. ‘I mean actually bitching about—’
But she had to cut herself short, as the music had reached a final peak and stopped with a last wail of the theorbo. Onstage, Tarquin had sung the last ‘stri – eye – ife . .
.’ of ‘Blue Seahorses’, and was panting, arms spread wide like the golden-haired, blue-eyed martyred saint he strongly resembled, microphone dangling spent from one white hand as
the crowd cheered and drummed their feet and wailed their applause. The steel hang was dripping with sweat from Lance’s beard; the roadie running onstage to remove the drum had to handle it
very carefully in case it slipped through his fingers.
‘Fuck, Tark’s going to pong of dog even more than ever when he comes offstage,’ Milly muttered grimly. ‘I’m not going
near
him till he has a shower and
changes and hangs those stinky old rags up in the sunshine to air out.’
‘I do think it’s rather lovely that they all wear their family’s clothes,’ Eva whispered bravely. ‘It’s so authentic and
real
. You know, their fans
actually know the names of the relatives they belonged to?’
‘They
do
? God, how mental of them!’ Milly said loudly enough that Elden, handing his theorbo reverently to another roadie and receiving an Arabian
oud
in exchange,
shot a cross glance over at Tarquin’s girlfriend, whom he rightly considered not remotely respectful enough of her boyfriend’s band and their very important art.
Onstage, Tarquin had raised the mike to his mouth again, and was saying: ‘Beautiful people of Latitude!’
The crowd cheered this with great enthusiasm. Tarquin was completely transparent: he was like a holy fool, quite incapable of saying anything he didn’t mean. If he told them they were
beautiful, he was utterly sincere, and they accepted the compliment very happily.
‘I just can’t hold it back any longer!’ he exclaimed, pressing one hand against his heart. ‘I wrote “Blue Seahorses” for my girlfriend, and that song means so
much to me – it really sums
how many times it had been dry cleaned, it still smelt, when heated above a certain temperature by Tarquin’s body, sweating under the stage lights, of stinky dog and hare blood. The young men
were all quite used to their suits by now and barely noticed each other’s odours, but eager journalists rushing to interview them as they came offstage had often been noticed to rear their
heads back and inhale as little as possible once they took in the full whiff of the four Ormond members in their damp hot tweeds.
My love’s ungiven, my wings are straw
I dip my heart into your life
My waterfall of tears will soar
Seahorses steal my promised wife
For dreams can fade where there is stri – eye – ife . . .
Tarquin sang, and a great many people in the field below the stage, who would have commented, ‘But what the fuck does that even
mean
?’ if they had seen the
words written down, sang along with him with as much conviction as if his lyrics were a Shakespeare sonnet set to music. Tarquin’s exquisite tenor voice, together with the melodic cadences of
the tunes written by Lance and Elden, elevated the nonsensical words into a sort of broken poetry while sung – with the caveat that as soon as you actually stopped for a moment to ask why
seahorses would want to steal anyone’s wife, the whole edifice would tumble like a house of cards.
‘God, talk about the Emperor’s New Clothes!’ Milly Gamble, Tarquin’s actress girlfriend, watching from the wings, shouted in her friend Eva’s ear. ‘This one
makes even
less
sense than the last one!’
‘It’s like poetry,’ Eva protested. ‘I know what he
means . . .
’
‘You’re so nice, Eves,’ Milly yelled accurately, if patronizingly. ‘You never have a bad word to say about anyone!’
‘I do!’ Eva was piqued. ‘I’m sure I do.’
‘I don’t mean slagging off factory farming or supermarkets or Third World work conditions,’ Milly shouted. ‘I mean actually bitching about—’
But she had to cut herself short, as the music had reached a final peak and stopped with a last wail of the theorbo. Onstage, Tarquin had sung the last ‘stri – eye – ife . .
.’ of ‘Blue Seahorses’, and was panting, arms spread wide like the golden-haired, blue-eyed martyred saint he strongly resembled, microphone dangling spent from one white hand as
the crowd cheered and drummed their feet and wailed their applause. The steel hang was dripping with sweat from Lance’s beard; the roadie running onstage to remove the drum had to handle it
very carefully in case it slipped through his fingers.
‘Fuck, Tark’s going to pong of dog even more than ever when he comes offstage,’ Milly muttered grimly. ‘I’m not going
near
him till he has a shower and
changes and hangs those stinky old rags up in the sunshine to air out.’
‘I do think it’s rather lovely that they all wear their family’s clothes,’ Eva whispered bravely. ‘It’s so authentic and
real
. You know, their fans
actually know the names of the relatives they belonged to?’
‘They
do
? God, how mental of them!’ Milly said loudly enough that Elden, handing his theorbo reverently to another roadie and receiving an Arabian
oud
in exchange,
shot a cross glance over at Tarquin’s girlfriend, whom he rightly considered not remotely respectful enough of her boyfriend’s band and their very important art.
Onstage, Tarquin had raised the mike to his mouth again, and was saying: ‘Beautiful people of Latitude!’
The crowd cheered this with great enthusiasm. Tarquin was completely transparent: he was like a holy fool, quite incapable of saying anything he didn’t mean. If he told them they were
beautiful, he was utterly sincere, and they accepted the compliment very happily.
‘I just can’t hold it back any longer!’ he exclaimed, pressing one hand against his heart. ‘I wrote “Blue Seahorses” for my girlfriend, and that song means so
much to me – it really sums
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