The East End streets were peaceful, wandering, taking photographs
of shadows & discarded things, The exotic food stalls had been concealed
in abandoned warehouses so that graffiti artists could line up along walls
openly like they were taking part in a public demonstration at a village fete.
The air smelled of aerosol & spices as we dug our fists into our pockets
between the retro shops. The music of independent labels & the perennial
rallying call of the Stooges clashed with the jangling guitars of the
Byrds singing ‘Mr Tambourine Man’, cutting heavily in some Cheesy old
Funk with requisite kitsch appeal.
London has acquired a Mediterranean whiff of drains, only noticed as
we wait at curb side, photographing stripes & parallel lines, waiting for
the lights to change. Grinning as we hung at table drinking coffee in
Rough Trade & a trawl through the racks of a record store that exudes a
tangible passion for recorded music – it still excites me. Looking for
nothing in particular I heard ‘The Exact Colour of Doubt‘ by Liars
& bought it.