Mamma Cass sings
‘Sweet Dreams’ in a budget hotel, back streets of 3rd generation designer smilers rough brick style, 21st century rave generation, gleaming clean as new pins, bedded in amongst the born-n-breads, the council flat developers, young high-flyers & the homeless wrapped in cardboard.
“Good morning, how was your room?” Loops a voice directing residents to tables, “it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet”. Images of last night’s streets sleep in my camera, split black bags spilled across pavements, little streams of anonymous liquids dribbling from the mouths of alleys, crazy fuzz slide kid guitarist chanting into a cheap mic, cheap amp like the ghost of young Bobby Gillespie whose disciples squat around him bottle drunk in the fever glow of yellow street lights beneath the steely twins, a lone girl dancing with her blissed-out drug on the edge of the curb lost in perpetual grin. I suck it all in, love it, taste it in my dreams, underscored by The Necks playing like an impossible torrent machine.