September 26, 1984
Heath Rogelin, top of his class, stuck with me even after the heedless waste from the Yarrow Project. What’s he do with his lessons? He calls it Irish drinking synth-pop, of all things. Perhaps I have become too enmeshed with the role of my public persona, but this is far too much to ask of anyone with ears, let alone as many credentials as I bear.
The sentiment is there, but the synthesizer is limiting his creative animus. Heartier vocals would also assist. This song purports to be about an astrologer, but even the slightest background in divine memetic geography would indicate the greater function of the strands. Rogelin is connecting us all within this aged café – a modern salon? Yes, but even more: a gate. Paris Street marks the crossbar, the jamb.
He knows it; the longing is there in his quartet’s very moniker: I Wish I Were A Prophet. Nevermind that there are four of them. Ironic?
And such dances: uninhibited, familiar if they were not so lewd. Where have I seen them before? Some text on the fall of empire, no doubt.
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Of course, the position of the chairs!
(Source: Half of a cocktail napkin from the Belltower thrust between the pages of the private journal of Dr. Orlando Laswell)