Neil Young, CSN and Bruce Springsteen will all be in the same area of the UK over the same weekend, in about a fortnight’s time. I don’t have a ticket. It should be a good focal point for various forces, with an ancient Somerset tor and a pyramid-shaped stage increasing the transmission potential of energies from the locality. Meanwhile, today for me is a day of great strangeness and great liability for changes. I met and lingered with my old Australian soulmate last night, and the air seems ripe for a thunderstorm of sorts. I hope this will not be my last transmission, although it may be my last from this station. In the wee wee hours my mind gets hazy, radio relay towers lead me to my baby, the radio’s jammed up with talk show stations, it’s just talk talk talk talk till I lose my patience.
No liquid storage in Detroit, no gasoline in Minnesota, no fleece in Duluth. Just a big hole in a ground floor window of a Minneapolis cold water flat, and a three storey sub-ground parking lot empty of cars.
My man in Somerset may have more to report in 10 days time. My insider is doing the falafel scene on the festival circuit. He may recognise other regular faces from show to show – loitering by the jester hat stand; lingering on the edge of the jazz tent; hiding in bushes when famous people walk by…
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