In 1982 my mothers hair was Elvis Presley jet. Her skin pale Irish incandescent. She wore black. Black. Black. And sometimes leopard. Her mouth Paloma Picasso red. Her perfume Chloe. It was like walking around with a mysterious movie star and this was the world we inhabited. My mother. The Elizabeth Taylor Of The East End. London had bite. It had glamour. People had their own distinct style and ways of behaving and speaking. Everything was interesting. London was sexy then.
Guy Bourdains ladies remind me of my mother in the 1970s. But that’s another story.
Jesus. First day back in the studio. Every single piece of equipment is pissed off with me. But mother is home now and bread needs to be baked. Cmon kids let’s get this job done. Voice over tribal beats and prairie bush. Bit like an indigenous obsession advert.
This years main thing. To create a world for myself that I really enjoy being in. This afternoon I exchanged a fried plantain, eggs and avocado brunch for an hour with my carpenter friend who helped me put up this dashing black velvet sound booth. We named it The David Lynch Tardis. So mysterious. So exciting.
