The first of these is a person: Joseph Arthur.
I first came across him as a young teenager when his song In the Sun provided the soundtrack for a Davidoff Echo advert which just so happened to feature the most beautiful creature I had ever clapped eyes on.
Arthur appeared for a second time later in my teens via (shamefully) the first soundtrack for The O.C. which featured Honey and the Moon and propelled him to a semi-famous state as girls everywhere swooned to his gently rasped, heartbreakingly tender lyrics and wished that they, like his subject, had someone wanting to run away with them.
Then, last night, I saw Joseph Arthur at Manchester's Deaf Institute where, ensconced in gloriously cool surroundings (which featured everything from chic avian-themed wallpaper, to red velvet and gigantic glitter balls) he provided 30 minutes of cleverly-looped pieces of musical heaven. Sadly this was short lived as he was joined for the majority of the show by his lonely astronauts (G. Wiz, the drummer, a hot totty guitarist and ex-model (no, really!), bra-less wonder, bassist Sibyl Buck) who with a shriek and a shoulder wiggle (both Buck) prodded, pricked, then totally ruined Arthur's carefully woven, beautifully intimate atmosphere.
The prospect of meeting Arthur after the show produced the usual effect that meeting people who write beautiful things (i.e. Ed Harcourt) has on me: hyperventilation. However, after 20 minutes of dithering, trying to think of something nice and clever to say, and after finally being forced to talk to him by an annoying Mancunian who couldn't dance, everything was ok. I'd even go so far as to say we got on rather well. And for this reason, and for the perfection of Can't Exist, the strangely attractive, mysterious Joseph Arthur has become the very first of my dreams in flashes.
Then, last night, I saw Joseph Arthur at Manchester's Deaf Institute where, ensconced in gloriously cool surroundings (which featured everything from chic avian-themed wallpaper, to red velvet and gigantic glitter balls) he provided 30 minutes of cleverly-looped pieces of musical heaven. Sadly this was short lived as he was joined for the majority of the show by his lonely astronauts (G. Wiz, the drummer, a hot totty guitarist and ex-model (no, really!), bra-less wonder, bassist Sibyl Buck) who with a shriek and a shoulder wiggle (both Buck) prodded, pricked, then totally ruined Arthur's carefully woven, beautifully intimate atmosphere.
The prospect of meeting Arthur after the show produced the usual effect that meeting people who write beautiful things (i.e. Ed Harcourt) has on me: hyperventilation. However, after 20 minutes of dithering, trying to think of something nice and clever to say, and after finally being forced to talk to him by an annoying Mancunian who couldn't dance, everything was ok. I'd even go so far as to say we got on rather well. And for this reason, and for the perfection of Can't Exist, the strangely attractive, mysterious Joseph Arthur has become the very first of my dreams in flashes.
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