Angry Young Men
This is something I posted ages ago, in 2014 December Challenge. It was posted really badly, in three consecutive comments, because it was too long for one, and I thought I'd put it up here for safekeeping :) I'm not quite happy with all of it anymore, but I won't change it either, except for some minor edits.
Quotes from various lyrics and interviews (too lazy for proper reference. Sorry!)
It goes with this picture
There’s a bunch of photos of Peter and Carl in these matching shirts, which were all probably taken on the same day. No wonder the photographer(s) felt inspired, for they really looked like a Rock’n’Roll fan’s wet dream - two pretty boys with their guitars, a tumble of hair, and this air of recklessness, rebellion and romance around them. White Riot. Perfect for anybody to project their wildest dreams of Revolution and Sex upon. Angry Young Men.
Carl quite liked to pose as an angry young man, besides he knew very well how hot he looked in the shirt with two buttons open and sleeves rolled up, glowering through his fringe. Carl had always felt the anger inside, quelled and waiting to be triggered off. But he didn’t quite know how to let it out. He was a bit ashamed of it, to speak the truth, cos a lot of it was mainly frustration really, with his own inadequacy, his inability to change, become the person he wanted to be and face the things in the world that made him sick, challenge them, show them he was not afraid to fight. And he wasn’t really. It was not fear that held him back, for he often felt desperate enough to challenge death. It was the feeling that to be able to stand tall he had to be better somehow, had to be whole on the inside, better than those he wanted to fight. Otherwise he’d just add to the mess. And what he mostly wanted to hide, what no one should ever know, was how un-whole he was, how he was all broken and messed-up inside.
And then there was Peter. Peter wasn’t really angry, not at first anyway, just very determined, very convinced to the point of aggression, of his vision and of the way thing should be done. Which drove him to desperation when people who were supposed to share his faith (Carl first of all) let him down. Or when he felt that they had. Peter was absolutely whole. Like a breath of fresh spring air blowing through a musty cellar.
Peter triggered all kinds of emotions in Carl, magnified them to the point of absurdity. He’d never felt such rage against anyone (ok one or two of his ex-girlfriends perhaps) making him want to stab the fucking bastard dead then and there. And spit in the hole.
‘"He's a psychopath," confides Pete, turning to us. "He's pulled a knife on me so many times. I've had to call the police about it."
Carl: "Well, I did nearly have to kill you last night, because you were such a c---.’
Well that was a joke of course. But not entirely.
But his anger at Peter never lasted very long, usually he resigned soon. Even after he’d called his mother a junkie in an interview. He’d rather strive for some kind of balance and so would resort to the passive-aggressive instead, to the “Look what you’ve done, it’s all your fault”, or the “That serves you right”, or the “You did wrong and this is what you get”. Until Peter just kicked him out of balance again.
Why did the boy love chaos so much? Perhaps because he was raised in false harmony? Because he had an inner bullshit alarm that went off as soon as he sensed one of those lies people used for covering up the controversies and conflicting needs and disappointed expectations that make the undercurrent of close relationships. That people usually paint over, in order to feel safe.
Peter would have none of it, it itched him, he had to tear it out in the open. That’s what he wrote his songs about after all? That and the hopes and dreams and desires. What did they expect him to do, lie? He was heading where no one had ever been before, was he expected to take the bus? Funny they were. He’d built his own ship and thought he’d sail it together with the like-minded. But then they’d started telling him he should change the course or slow down or not sail too far out or whatever. This was not the Green Line bus he kept telling them. How were they ever going to find anything new, discover the land of their dreams if they were expected to toe the line? Didn’t they see that? Why did they keep holding him back, when he was doing it for all of them?
Back in the day when they were struggling to get some attention, Carl would never have thought, that anger was going to be the key to their success. It had turned out that the right portion of sex and outrage, mixed into their melody and verse, was the perfect recipe to open the hearts and purses of the public - not to mention the oratory skills of the critics. The polite boy in his retro suit, standing still on stage or tap-dancing to a Mama Cass song, was nearly impossible to recognize in the topless rock god, shaking his head, stomping his feet and wiggling his hips to his guitar, sweaty fringe covering his eyes. That was an incarnation of himself that Carl loved and one that he kept. Helped him connect with his evil self and make it presentable. But what he didn’t quite realize at the time, was that the ‘Angry young man’ had given him the key to still something else.
When it all turned sour between Peter and him, Carl couldn’t let the anger out. He didn’t even know if he really felt any. He felt like falling into the abyss again, a dark stinking flood of shame and guilt rising up to his throat, clenching it, making him gasp for air. If all this was happening to him, then he must have deserved it somehow, invited it with the dark, unworthy void right at the centre of his self. He could only ever let it out on himself and … perhaps it was better kept inside. So he just tried to stay afloat, grab to what he could for balance. Not to do anything irreversible.
“No these songs are not about Peter. “
“No, I don’t mind him running to the tabloids, if he’d only speak the truth”
Journalists got their fair share of Carl’s anger tough, as did anyone who tried to feed on their drama. So they learned to be careful around him, he had been doing kick-boxing after all.
Peter was as open and eloquent about hate as he’d been about love. I showed no decorum, spilled my heart out on the forum... Only that most of it wasn’t really hate, but hurt, disappointment, pain … and yes, anger. Mixed with just a dash of malice when something had really pissed him off. Peter had always been good at turning the most negative of his emotions into poetry.
"Two thousand years I waited for your call, screaming from the window, screaming bloody murder...
You say that you love me, why don’t you fuck off”
And Carl? He still had the key in his hand and it seemed that he’d found the door it could unlock. And let some of it out before it suffocated him.
"I knew all along, but I was loathe to believe, there was nothing but spite, fury and lies of the words that you weave..."
"Doesn't matter now, I'm angry anyhow. So it's the best way I can deal with blood thirsty bastards…"
"I am my father's son, I'll kick your teeth in and run. A bulldog blinded by rainbows and sun, related to you all, I think you will agree, naked to you all..."
It’s all there, the anger and loathing, the digging in the dirt, the blood on his shoes, the abuse and the murder. You can deny it all you want, it’s all there.
But he is still here. And so is his lost brother. Alive. They’d put it out there for everyone to see and hear. For fans to endlessly argue which song was about who and what it ‘really’ meant. They’d put it out there, so they wouldn’t have to carry it around with them endlessly. So that the songs would do the killing and dying for them. So they could be free of it one day. More or less. Free to move on.
Not so young and angry anymore but -
Ain’t it good to be alive
Quotes from various lyrics and interviews (too lazy for proper reference. Sorry!)
It goes with this picture
There’s a bunch of photos of Peter and Carl in these matching shirts, which were all probably taken on the same day. No wonder the photographer(s) felt inspired, for they really looked like a Rock’n’Roll fan’s wet dream - two pretty boys with their guitars, a tumble of hair, and this air of recklessness, rebellion and romance around them. White Riot. Perfect for anybody to project their wildest dreams of Revolution and Sex upon. Angry Young Men.
Carl quite liked to pose as an angry young man, besides he knew very well how hot he looked in the shirt with two buttons open and sleeves rolled up, glowering through his fringe. Carl had always felt the anger inside, quelled and waiting to be triggered off. But he didn’t quite know how to let it out. He was a bit ashamed of it, to speak the truth, cos a lot of it was mainly frustration really, with his own inadequacy, his inability to change, become the person he wanted to be and face the things in the world that made him sick, challenge them, show them he was not afraid to fight. And he wasn’t really. It was not fear that held him back, for he often felt desperate enough to challenge death. It was the feeling that to be able to stand tall he had to be better somehow, had to be whole on the inside, better than those he wanted to fight. Otherwise he’d just add to the mess. And what he mostly wanted to hide, what no one should ever know, was how un-whole he was, how he was all broken and messed-up inside.
And then there was Peter. Peter wasn’t really angry, not at first anyway, just very determined, very convinced to the point of aggression, of his vision and of the way thing should be done. Which drove him to desperation when people who were supposed to share his faith (Carl first of all) let him down. Or when he felt that they had. Peter was absolutely whole. Like a breath of fresh spring air blowing through a musty cellar.
Peter triggered all kinds of emotions in Carl, magnified them to the point of absurdity. He’d never felt such rage against anyone (ok one or two of his ex-girlfriends perhaps) making him want to stab the fucking bastard dead then and there. And spit in the hole.
‘"He's a psychopath," confides Pete, turning to us. "He's pulled a knife on me so many times. I've had to call the police about it."
Carl: "Well, I did nearly have to kill you last night, because you were such a c---.’
Well that was a joke of course. But not entirely.
But his anger at Peter never lasted very long, usually he resigned soon. Even after he’d called his mother a junkie in an interview. He’d rather strive for some kind of balance and so would resort to the passive-aggressive instead, to the “Look what you’ve done, it’s all your fault”, or the “That serves you right”, or the “You did wrong and this is what you get”. Until Peter just kicked him out of balance again.
Why did the boy love chaos so much? Perhaps because he was raised in false harmony? Because he had an inner bullshit alarm that went off as soon as he sensed one of those lies people used for covering up the controversies and conflicting needs and disappointed expectations that make the undercurrent of close relationships. That people usually paint over, in order to feel safe.
Peter would have none of it, it itched him, he had to tear it out in the open. That’s what he wrote his songs about after all? That and the hopes and dreams and desires. What did they expect him to do, lie? He was heading where no one had ever been before, was he expected to take the bus? Funny they were. He’d built his own ship and thought he’d sail it together with the like-minded. But then they’d started telling him he should change the course or slow down or not sail too far out or whatever. This was not the Green Line bus he kept telling them. How were they ever going to find anything new, discover the land of their dreams if they were expected to toe the line? Didn’t they see that? Why did they keep holding him back, when he was doing it for all of them?
Back in the day when they were struggling to get some attention, Carl would never have thought, that anger was going to be the key to their success. It had turned out that the right portion of sex and outrage, mixed into their melody and verse, was the perfect recipe to open the hearts and purses of the public - not to mention the oratory skills of the critics. The polite boy in his retro suit, standing still on stage or tap-dancing to a Mama Cass song, was nearly impossible to recognize in the topless rock god, shaking his head, stomping his feet and wiggling his hips to his guitar, sweaty fringe covering his eyes. That was an incarnation of himself that Carl loved and one that he kept. Helped him connect with his evil self and make it presentable. But what he didn’t quite realize at the time, was that the ‘Angry young man’ had given him the key to still something else.
When it all turned sour between Peter and him, Carl couldn’t let the anger out. He didn’t even know if he really felt any. He felt like falling into the abyss again, a dark stinking flood of shame and guilt rising up to his throat, clenching it, making him gasp for air. If all this was happening to him, then he must have deserved it somehow, invited it with the dark, unworthy void right at the centre of his self. He could only ever let it out on himself and … perhaps it was better kept inside. So he just tried to stay afloat, grab to what he could for balance. Not to do anything irreversible.
“No these songs are not about Peter. “
“No, I don’t mind him running to the tabloids, if he’d only speak the truth”
Journalists got their fair share of Carl’s anger tough, as did anyone who tried to feed on their drama. So they learned to be careful around him, he had been doing kick-boxing after all.
Peter was as open and eloquent about hate as he’d been about love. I showed no decorum, spilled my heart out on the forum... Only that most of it wasn’t really hate, but hurt, disappointment, pain … and yes, anger. Mixed with just a dash of malice when something had really pissed him off. Peter had always been good at turning the most negative of his emotions into poetry.
"Two thousand years I waited for your call, screaming from the window, screaming bloody murder...
You say that you love me, why don’t you fuck off”
And Carl? He still had the key in his hand and it seemed that he’d found the door it could unlock. And let some of it out before it suffocated him.
"I knew all along, but I was loathe to believe, there was nothing but spite, fury and lies of the words that you weave..."
"Doesn't matter now, I'm angry anyhow. So it's the best way I can deal with blood thirsty bastards…"
"I am my father's son, I'll kick your teeth in and run. A bulldog blinded by rainbows and sun, related to you all, I think you will agree, naked to you all..."
It’s all there, the anger and loathing, the digging in the dirt, the blood on his shoes, the abuse and the murder. You can deny it all you want, it’s all there.
But he is still here. And so is his lost brother. Alive. They’d put it out there for everyone to see and hear. For fans to endlessly argue which song was about who and what it ‘really’ meant. They’d put it out there, so they wouldn’t have to carry it around with them endlessly. So that the songs would do the killing and dying for them. So they could be free of it one day. More or less. Free to move on.
Not so young and angry anymore but -
Ain’t it good to be alive