„Please excuse me if I reverse many months now, to sitting in a Cafe Nero in West London before heading in to see Brian Eno at his studio. I was scribbling a head mash in my notebook, not for anything but after head-bending weeks trying to fit my life choices into the seemingly unforgiving boxes of ‚future‘, ‚family‘, ‚housing‘, ‚wage‘ etc. I had always chosen this cafe before sessions with Brian, it had a first floor window to watch the street below from and usually I came to it after a longish journey, the rhythm of which had allowed thoughts to form as they do on long journeys, the greatest time to stare and let the subconscious tumble around a little.
I sat there to have a quick coffee and gather myself, as much out of habit as anything. I scribbled a super-quick page in my notebook,
Pattern Man
you’re really freaking out
shot in your snout
baby smell and all that
dog at your trousers
body cracks when you fill the tubes
with fumes now
humans look wood cracked now
six of ten on street pinocchio
looking down at phones now
birthday clocks in our pockets
pouting like trout now
how will the numbers fall
for the walkabout
It was due to be a meet up for lunch and a catch up. It had been months. As ever though he had something cooking, some haywire jazz piano improvisation process. Again as ever, it made me share my latest or most relevant notebook scrawl, and within minutes of walking in and saying hello I had mic in hand and we were making a piece. Just a couple of hours, if that, and off we went.
The patter of these words stuck with me. They didn’t make it into my collection, though I thought of them often and the title reflected how often the instinct to control raised its thorny head in my work — and way beyond that tiny microcosm.“
R i c k H o l l a n d