19. David Toop Takes An Afternoon Nap

A 5-minute radio play written to a specific set of sound FX provided by Peter Blegvad. We were given the option of recording it, instead of performing - I did neither, simply because it was simply too rubbish, in comparison to the preceding works. In any case, there wasn't enough time to perform them all...

SOUNDS OF TYPING

DAVID: OK. [groans] God. Why do they send me this shit? Oh, come on, keep it up. Only five more disks to review, and then lunch. Booze. Cat-warmth. Bacon. Mmm. They could at least send me some interesting field recordings, though. Air-conditioning hum, forest clearings, something. Just because I wrote that bloody book, they assume I want to hear their contact-miked farts, or the noises their hard-drives make when they’re asleep. Give me Egyptian Lover any day. Ah, balls to this.

TYPING CEASES

DAVID: I know how the rest of it goes anyway. Let’s see what’s on the wireless.

RADIO STATIC WITH SPOOKY SOUND

DAVID: Hmm, nice. A bit of shape hiding in there somewhere. [Beat] Focusing in on the forms hiding amid amorphousness – picking out the pattern of dust particles in a nebula or whatever Burroughs said. Beats as the manifestation of man’s –

STATIC CUTS OUT

DAVID: – lust for categorisation, maybe… Yeah, that’ll make a chapter by –

CUTS BACK IN

DAVID: – itself, sure. Now, what have we got? Hm. It’s about, as I say – ooh – yes, finding whatever lies out there in here, maybe. And hence, the pleasure of an afternoon drifting the airwaves; the siren lure of signal. Which reminds me, the new Henry Cow boxset, must get. [Beat] Maybe I should head out to the off-licence later. Hmm, the cat needs litter; Albert could do with some air. Ooh, promising. Yes, in this case, it began with the numbers stations, hip-hop broadcasts, jungle pirate radio. The internet, for a while – Napster, streaming audio, Soulseek, the entire audio universe available – but interest soon…

END STATIC & SIGHS; PHONE RINGS

DAVID: Ah, for shit’s sake. Where did I – ? [grunts]

PHONE CEASES RINGING.

DAVID: Hello? [Less than happy] Oh, hi Tony. Yeah, I’m just wrapping up the copy now. Why don’t you email me about this shit? Alright, fine. Bye. [Sighs. Yawns.] Bloody toil. Let’s see what’s we have.

TAP DANCING

RADIO ANNOUNCER: The young Fred Astaire, born in Omaha, Nebraska, 1897, would listen alternately to vaudeville shows on the radio, and the freight trains in the marshalling yard south of their house, marvelling at the sound –

DAVID: [Sleepily] Hmm, interesting…. [Sounds of snoring]

HARP SIGNALLING ENTRANCE TO DREAM. DREAM DRONE

DAVID: Hmm? Oh, Derek, is that you? Was that Will playing? It’s so lovely to see you. And… Hugh? John? Paul?

JOHN STEVENS: Hiya David. God, you’ve let yourself go.

DAVID: What are you all doing here?

DEREK BAILEY: [dry Yorkshire accent] We’re setting up a dream sextet.

PAUL BURWELL: [Yorkshire accent] No limits on instruments. I’ve got the whole shebang – a gamelan orchestra. Bit of a bugger to play, mind.

DAVID: Well… that’s marvellous. Why don’t we get Evan or Eddie, and make it a septet?

SINISTER DRONE

HUGH DAVIES: [Welsh accent] I’m afraid they… can’t play with us. Too lively.

DAVID: You’re one to talk! I never knew anyone livelier than you guys. Well, there was that crack-gang I hung with in NY back in ’82. You remember those days?

DEREK BAILEY: Oh, we remember it all.

JOHN STEVENS: Not so lively these days, Dave. Ears gone, wits going with them. Nothing out there holding the interest, but what they keep behind the bar, and how much they’re planning to pay us. You spend a bloody lifetime trying to get out there, and where does it get you. We’re broken records, dontcha know?

DAVID: [Pause] But… you were all so good with it, we had such good times. [Beat] It… it meant something to me. [Pause] Fucking damnit, I wept for you, you fuckers! And this is what’s fucking left to me?!

JOHN STEVENS: David, would you calm down?! Or am I going to have to administer the Zen slap?

DRONE SLOWLY FADING

DAVID: [starts from sleep] Oh, God! What, where the –

SOUND OF BIRDSONG.

DAVID: [sighs with relief] Jesus… Right, back to work. Has this been on all the time? No, come on, the next disk. Although…

RADIO STATIC, SOON JOINED BY RHYTHMIC CLANGING.

DAVID: Hmm… Einstürzende Neubauten? I always told Blixa they’d make a good ambient listen, as long as he’s on low. See if we can’t get rid of this static…

STATIC CUTS IN AND OUT, WHILST CLANGING AND BIRDSONG CONTINUE

DAVID: Hmm. It was that question – what remains when we remove the input. One hand clapping. And beyond that?

BOINGING NOISE

DAVID: Hugh? [Pause] Hugh? [shouting] Hugh, speak to me! For God’s sake, say something!

BOINGING NOISE ENDS. TWO SECOND SILENCE. RINGTONE

DAVID: Oh, God, I can’t face it. A disk. Anything. Something by Brian.

PIANO

DAVID: Albert. Albert. Albert, my Albert.

CHILD CRYING

DAVID: Sshh, sshh. Come on, calm now. [Beat] We’re still here, aren’t we. Calm, calm.

FADE OUT.