| Maximo Park Diary Entries |
| These are diary entries by Maximo Park members from the Official Maximo Park Website. |
Hamburg, night and day |
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| 22 Oct, 2007 |
All alone again. And my brain begins to work independently once more.
The sky aches with rain. It releases its burden readily.
A small man waddles around the hotel in his borrowed dressing gown, his filp-flops splatter across the tiled floor.
From three television screens, a disembodied, personality-free voice implores people to spend money on different popular songs for their mobile phones. So many numbers to call, so many flickers of songs; little hooks; clues to this mysterious business.
The echoing pitter patter of the rain finds its way through the air conditioning grate, sounding like the muffled crackle of a looped, electrical fault.
My left thumb smells of sweet strawberries. It's one of the only smells that the confectionary industry got right in their quest to create artificial flavourings. The taste has yet to catch up with the real thing.
At night...
What seems to be a wooden hut is throbbing with music. Muted lights hang like brocade, and young men and women float about outside. A black dog skims down an adjacent set of stairs, preceding its owner by some distance. It sniffs around for a bit, looking disinterested.
Past a bar called Purgatory, spelled out in Gothic type, there's a fancy dress shop with the lights still on, catching the sequins, the gold lame and the sparkling buttons of various over-the-top garments. It makes sense in this area, which contains numerous women hanging around on the midnight pavements, sporting eyeshadow and puffed-up ski jackets above tight, stonewashed denim. I suppose it's like a uniform for their line of work, much like any other.
A group of guys shuffle on the forecourt of a bright petrol station in baggy sportswear and baseball caps. Not exactly menacing, but there's potential.
Inside a bar advertising Punk 'N' Roll, a lightbox image of a leopardskin Betty Page illuminates a staircase, while overhead, strip lighting fans out like the dials on a clockface. I sit in the corner away from the throng, beside a constantly-occupied table football game, where the ball rumbles about, whizzing past the freewheeling figurines.
Fake, orange candles flicker in programmed time within plastic bulbs, making the patterned wallpaper glow. People scream along with powerful guitars as the music's volume creeps another few decibels higher. Masks with bulging eyes and swirling, multi-coloured designs hang behind the bar alongside a small Canadian flag. Magazines about people with tattoos sit in surprisingly neat piles on the tables. The noise of conversation is ever louder as it competes with the music; a constant blare.
Sometimes, days just disappoint.
Paul Smith |
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