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legss - letter to huw lyrics

“when you’re in paris”
said hue with an air of the betrayed ms. jean brodie
“walk with your head up, up, up
to deter from the cold lowly stares”

huw stevens and i were sitting across from each other
at the hard rock cafe in paris
nursing espressos with cremors of an untouched crumb gold
when he placed his fist sharply down on the table
he looked me dead in the eyes
and i saw in his face an apprehension for what he was about to tell me
a sort of wall eyed remorse usually reserved for shy princes abandoning their thrones

we’d arrived into paris six hours earlier
having decided on an impromptu eurostar
while dining on bbc money
in a costly little hovel called “jamie’s”
huw had been desperate to catch the last euro show
of a darling new alternative outfit he was championing
and no amount of prosecco was going to persuade him from his plan
pacing ahead to st. [?] international
fired on by queue [?]
his desperation for me to accompany him
as i deliberated boarding the train reached embarrassing proportions
and i was ushered quickly onto the first class carriage
(radio one)
so here we were
six hours later, huw and i
reeling anxiously in the hard rock cafe just off [?]
huw’s fist still sat silently on the table
his eyes had not swayed, the river slowed
“i have a problem,” he said to me
“that n0body can ever discover”
i could see that he didn’t want me to reply
it was as if admission would come of its own accord
he winced and then shrugged
lounged back and then stretched
paused for a final breath
then spoke

“i cannot stand any type of music
i feel absolutely nothing
it is all so boring
i wake up and i think to myself:
i have to listen to all of this, all over again
new jazz electronica with strings
and the post and the punk and the vigor and the ++
oh, it just means absolutely nothing to me
there’s not a genre i can stand
not a singer i can bare
i play a debut track on air
i don’t like it
listen to seminal records in my headphones
i can’t stand it
i even book for festivals all across the world
i hate it”
huw broke for a momentary pause
his eyes scanning the parisian debris
and he quoted with a solemnly irony
from eliot’s “the hollow men”:

“our dried voices when we whisper together
are quiet and meaningless as wind in dry grass
or rats’ feet over broken glass in our dry cellar”

i laughed a hacking laugh that merged into a cough
and crashed down to the ground with a mouth full of spit

- legss lyrics

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