Brixton

Outside this window #31

Outside this window Brixton slept, bathed in the haze of the late afternoon. But not the Hootananny. It’s kicking he said, as we drove past towards the supermarket. The traffic lights catch us; we are held in the bowl of sound from the old Edwardian venue. Saxaphone… trumpet… they were all at it. Glorious harmonising. Music loud enough to get up and dance right where you found yourself. It’s kicking! we laughed as we parked and meandered inside Sainsburys, barely able to hear the kid canvassing sponsors for new football kit for his team at school, over the thumping Saturday celebrations, and all her patrons happily scattered at the wooden pub tables, different shaped sunglasses reflecting the lazy afternoon sunshine. I toyed with the idea of suggesting a beer on the way home. I grabbed a basket and wandered the aisles. Before we emerged through the automatic doors I turned to him, my expression asking before the words came. What the hell is that? Happy harmony, saxaphone and trumpet vanished, overtaken by the antithesis of what we understand music to be. I imagined what it would be like to be sitting at a Hootananny table now. Trapped and beaten up by the caterwalling clawing noise forcing its way inside relaxed ears under the spell of the previous track. Outside this window is the power of sound. And the throng seated outside the Hootananny don’t care. Brixton doesn’t stir. Everyone sits out the noise and waits for music to return.