Three glass coins; father coin, mother coin and baby coin are pulled from a wishing well and cast onto a glass table. From the bird’s eye we see a troll,that guards the ‘under-table’, pop its head into view like a squinting mole from a hole. It mumbles moreover rumbles with a deep and incoherent clarity  “Spee Noo”. A hand gathers the coins and casts them across the table anew. The troll mumbles and rumbles again, quite liking the part it’s playing but flustered by its speech impediment.

Stage left no, stage right no, stage sky – YES; Thor in a string vest flexes his biceps and his forearm muscles tighten soon after as the oversized football-ended drumsticks he grasps start to deliberately and measuredly beat themselves onto an equally oversize kettle drum. Slow at first with a pace that steadily intensifies. Animal from the muppets pulls your focus to some other-dimensional corner where he sits on an unseated drum stool and rattles out a cascading riff on an old casio electric drum kit.

An ethereal Martin Fry, voice freshly polished eclipses Animal and slides the instruction ‘Speak’ over his larynx. All eclipsing this sound is too and all graceful it pervades but doesn’t alter the ambience. All matter of fact he sounds to boot. But “No” comes the quick reply–his own reply in a matching tone. The Troll listens itself now and learns these two words “Speak, No“. That’s what it was trying to say it thinks to itself. Martin Fry employs a one-fingered pianist, the pianist plays and pitches high notes, in serial, into the milieu.

So, with the scene now set to agreeable, Martin breaks into stern song, yet there’s that smoothness that stays with his voice. The voice he uses to state his argument in a silky-silvery denial; always denial.

A Jazz club sax player makes a brief appearance from the seventies cigarette vapour that is part his making. Eyes closed, cheeks puffed with air and nicotine he belts out a small solo while the listener Martin; who gave up the listening years ago, listens for a second to himself singing and reminiscing. To decide only to bin the idea for further defiance. Yes defiance.

Defiant, you see – Fry’s in love, he’s so deludedly in love he’s certain it’s forever and as much as he wants to, he can’t sing away the denial.

An interlude perhaps – for him to gather energy me suspects – No good, voices, voices, him, himself, he becomes the TROLL. Animal and Troll then combine with the upskilling pianist who’s quickly growing fingers. It’s an alliance and it’s all for the crescendo, all for the climax, all for ceding to a shared eternity.

Now reader, you can stop here, move quickly on and dismiss this message from a man, a true inhabitant of the pigeon hole you hold that’s dymo taped with the label : Bedlam.


Or take this key from me and turn it. 

A door opens. There’s a note suspended centrally in a cubed room. It reads: Get the best cans, get yourself free, get 5 minutes, get yourself comfortable. Get the one song: ‘4 Ever 2 Gether by ABC’, get it on.  Close your lids, open your mind and listen.

Get then what I’m on about.

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Museworthy Man

Typically atypical man from Manchester with aspirations that'll never/maybe/could one day be realisations :-D

3 thoughts on “Speak…No…”

  1. My what a vivid tableau you have painted SM. One might think there’s the need for some dexterous cogitation to pinpoint the crux here, ultimately though the question is whether the shadow of the negative, or the glinting sunlight of the positive triumphs in the end. Once, trice, thrice. Or not at all. There is every chance that my swirling cogitations on this post of yours may coalesce as they rumba together resulting in something (possibly) worth publishing on my own humble blog. Inspiration as reward for perspiration and perseverance, thanks to concentration, (plus a soupçon of exasperation.) In as much as………………..are you on medication at all?

    I jest of course. Please accept a vigintillion of pardons from myself and the cloud. XD

    Key clasped in hand, the door to what you’re on about swings open in a slow wide arc, a cornucopia of possible answers then revealed by following the strict commands: letting go, getting loose, lashes at rest on cheeks whilst drifting on the slip stream of the entire caboodle, until……bingo-bongo…..I see the light. You-reeka.



  2. I-reeka? I-reeka something, something museworthy I hope. Dropped the key in at the end out of a sense of guilt; bewilderment’s not my objective, honestly. Keep Occam’s razor on hand if things seem too tightly knotted. More the stimulation of thought and an ‘Oh Yeah’ moment is the take I prefer to take from people’s take on what I splurge out here.

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