brainbomb excerpt: RECOVERY
In the Intensive Psychiatric Care Unit, patients are taking part in keep-fit, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. I'm jogging on the spot, arms outstretched, then jumping like a demented jack-in-the-box. a memory stirs. THIS REMINDS ME OF POGOING.
Shutting my eyes I remember bouncing up and down to the punk bands in Clouds. I sense the flat-line of my depression starting to pulse again. I tighten my fists, feeling my heartbeat, so insistent. I imagine this as the rhythm to so many songs I’ve long-forgotten about but want to listen to. I’m still that naïve, enthusiastic, passionate punk. A disciple of Iggy Pop. Lusting for life.
In the lounge, the nurses have cleared the chairs to one side. Helen feeds a cassette into a cumbersome-looking player and seconds later, Olivia Newton John’s ‘Physical’ starts pounding from the speakers. Nine patients are gathered expectantly while Helen talks us through some basic exercises. I can’t remember when I last paid attention to music. I'm aware of the glaring chasm that opened up over the summer. After being someone who was passionate about music, who bought albums and singles, played guitar and keyboards in bands that performed gigs and recorded demos and albums, even being broadcast on Radio 1 and Radio Forth, I lost all interest. Despite an enthusiasm that coursed throughout my teens and into my 20s, my life has become characterised by abject apathy towards everything, especially music. For whatever unfathomable reason, I became more comfortable with silence. Perverse, deafening silence.
It dawns on me this cheesy song, with its dance-lite beat, insipid lyrics but catchy melodies, is the first time I’ve really listened to music of any genre for months. Closing my eyes, I listen to Olivia’s voice imploring there’s nothing left to talk about unless it’s horizontally. I smile at that. Rock lyrics might cover a universe of subjects but pop is so often about basic urges. Love and sex. Further topics eradicated from my attention span for longer than I care to remember.
I snigger at everyone following Helen’s lead, gyrating from side to side, stretching, touching toes, groaning at the unfamiliar muscle strains. Initially hesistant about participating, I step forward. Now we’re marching on the spot. I stomp my feet up and down. You can’t help but laugh at the incongruous way we express a love of music by dancing, moving to the beat. From House clubs in Detroit to villages in Polynesia to a communal room in the locked ward of an Edinburgh psychiatric hospital, the way music inspires you to express your enthusiasm with weird body movements is such a basic, wonderful human instinct.
In the doorway I spot two nuns taking an interest in our keep-fit session, nodding to the music. I’ve no idea how often nuns visit the ward, but one patient has RFC inked into his neck and I wait for the inevitable reaction as he snaps out of exercising and utters something poisonous. He’s too busy jogging on the spot. The more immediate concern for Helen is Martha, an elderly patient who has materialised behind the nuns in her dressing-down.
She’s muttering, raising her voice to be heard over the music, the agitation in her speech increasing. Martha would phase the most dutiful of any of God’s servants. Her every third word tends to be ‘fuck’ or ‘cunt.’ She is spectacularly pissed off at the world and the Royal Ed in general, but God in particular. When I hear her approaching I tend to skulk away. I see a male nurse ushering her back down the corridor, suggesting a cup of tea.
I feel a weird irony as I do star jumps in front of the nuns, stretching my limbs out in great crucified shapes. When we stop for a breather a tall bloke approaches me. He is new to the ward. He has a studious expression as he looks me up and down. Is a nurse or a fresh patient? It’s impossible to tell. He answers the question himself.
‘You think you’re Jesus Christ, yeh?’
‘Eh, no…’
‘Just as well. Cos I am. I’m Jesus Christ.’
Adrian, a balding guy in a shapeless cardigan, overhears the exchange. He pauses his frenetic exercise and pads over to us. He seizes my inquisitor’s hand. ‘You’re Jesus?’
‘Aye. Who are you?’
‘I’m God.’
‘Hiyah, Dad.’
Sidestepping their bizarre world I focus on Olivia’s earnest warblings again. Now I’m jumping. This reminds me of pogoing. Shutting my eyes I think of glorious rock and roll moments from my teens.
It dawns on me this cheesy song, with its dance-lite beat, insipid lyrics but catchy melodies, is the first time I’ve really listened to music of any genre for months. Closing my eyes, I listen to Olivia’s voice imploring there’s nothing left to talk about unless it’s horizontally. I smile at that. Rock lyrics might cover a universe of subjects but pop is so often about basic urges. Love and sex. Further topics eradicated from my attention span for longer than I care to remember.
I snigger at everyone following Helen’s lead, gyrating from side to side, stretching, touching toes, groaning at the unfamiliar muscle strains. Initially hesistant about participating, I step forward. Now we’re marching on the spot. I stomp my feet up and down. You can’t help but laugh at the incongruous way we express a love of music by dancing, moving to the beat. From House clubs in Detroit to villages in Polynesia to a communal room in the locked ward of an Edinburgh psychiatric hospital, the way music inspires you to express your enthusiasm with weird body movements is such a basic, wonderful human instinct.
In the doorway I spot two nuns taking an interest in our keep-fit session, nodding to the music. I’ve no idea how often nuns visit the ward, but one patient has RFC inked into his neck and I wait for the inevitable reaction as he snaps out of exercising and utters something poisonous. He’s too busy jogging on the spot. The more immediate concern for Helen is Martha, an elderly patient who has materialised behind the nuns in her dressing-down.
She’s muttering, raising her voice to be heard over the music, the agitation in her speech increasing. Martha would phase the most dutiful of any of God’s servants. Her every third word tends to be ‘fuck’ or ‘cunt.’ She is spectacularly pissed off at the world and the Royal Ed in general, but God in particular. When I hear her approaching I tend to skulk away. I see a male nurse ushering her back down the corridor, suggesting a cup of tea.
I feel a weird irony as I do star jumps in front of the nuns, stretching my limbs out in great crucified shapes. When we stop for a breather a tall bloke approaches me. He is new to the ward. He has a studious expression as he looks me up and down. Is a nurse or a fresh patient? It’s impossible to tell. He answers the question himself.
‘You think you’re Jesus Christ, yeh?’
‘Eh, no…’
‘Just as well. Cos I am. I’m Jesus Christ.’
Adrian, a balding guy in a shapeless cardigan, overhears the exchange. He pauses his frenetic exercise and pads over to us. He seizes my inquisitor’s hand. ‘You’re Jesus?’
‘Aye. Who are you?’
‘I’m God.’
‘Hiyah, Dad.’
Sidestepping their bizarre world I focus on Olivia’s earnest warblings again. Now I’m jumping. This reminds me of pogoing. Shutting my eyes I think of glorious rock and roll moments from my teens.
I’m inside Clouds, anticipating Stiff Little Fingers taking the stage. The club is rammed with tousle-haired kids like myself, clothes spraypainted, festooned with pins and chains. My white t-shirt, the one I wore to PE last year, hastily marker penned with band names – The Damned, ATV, The Vibrators, Ultravox, The Saints, Wire, The Freeze, Adam and the Ants – is plastered to my skin with the heat. The lights cut. A pregnant pause. Everyone craning towards the stage. Before me, two punkettes, brunette and peroxide blonde, arms linked, their perfume potent, their hair sculpted into spikes; the blonde in a torn blouse, the brunette a fishnet vest revealing her bra. Homage to The Slits. Unlike the rock bands I’ve seen within the past six months, Blue Oyster Cult and Judas Priest, where the audience was 100% denim-clad lads, there are hordes of female fans in this seething mass, ensuring a frisson of sexual tension courses through this new music scene.
A roar from the front, gathering momentum until everyone is cheering, whistling. The stage lights ignite. In a gruff Belfast brogue encapsulating fury at the decades of mindless sectarian violence instigated by the partitioning of their homeland, Jake Burns barks, ‘Inflammable material planted in my head, it’s a suspect device that’s left two thousand dead!’
They’re so fast. I throw myself into the melee, leaping up and down, the pricks near the front launching salvos of spit towards the stage. Through the confusion I glimpse one of the mates I came in with but lost. They’re in a band, The Accidents. Earlier they touched base with the lad who’s going to be their new guitarist, a chef in Goldberg’s. His hair is dyed green. I clock him bouncing in the middle of all this. Although I’ve got school in the morning I don’t care. An uncertain future might be yawning before me but there’s nothing beyond this moment, and the music’s passion and energy.
Helen presses ‘stop.’
Like everyone else I’m breathless and my heart is thumping. I’m visualising the flat-line of my depression starting to pulse again. I tighten my fists, feeling my heartbeat, so insistent. I imagine this as the rhythm to so many songs I’ve long-forgotten about but want to listen to again.
I’m still that naïve, enthusiastic, passionate punk. A disciple of Iggy Pop. Lusting for life.
A roar from the front, gathering momentum until everyone is cheering, whistling. The stage lights ignite. In a gruff Belfast brogue encapsulating fury at the decades of mindless sectarian violence instigated by the partitioning of their homeland, Jake Burns barks, ‘Inflammable material planted in my head, it’s a suspect device that’s left two thousand dead!’
They’re so fast. I throw myself into the melee, leaping up and down, the pricks near the front launching salvos of spit towards the stage. Through the confusion I glimpse one of the mates I came in with but lost. They’re in a band, The Accidents. Earlier they touched base with the lad who’s going to be their new guitarist, a chef in Goldberg’s. His hair is dyed green. I clock him bouncing in the middle of all this. Although I’ve got school in the morning I don’t care. An uncertain future might be yawning before me but there’s nothing beyond this moment, and the music’s passion and energy.
Helen presses ‘stop.’
Like everyone else I’m breathless and my heart is thumping. I’m visualising the flat-line of my depression starting to pulse again. I tighten my fists, feeling my heartbeat, so insistent. I imagine this as the rhythm to so many songs I’ve long-forgotten about but want to listen to again.
I’m still that naïve, enthusiastic, passionate punk. A disciple of Iggy Pop. Lusting for life.
