The correct Latin translation for nostalgia is pain of return, or so I’m told by a reliable source, Mr Robert Yates, a poetry and translation genius.
This morning, I was staring at the cover of my John Coltrane A Love Supreme CD. I know, not having it on vinyl makes me an official Jazz twat. I still think it’s the greatest piece of music ever recorded in the twentieth century but I hardly listen to it these days. Most Jazz and Classical music I listen to is purely a background thing; it’s good for me when I’m writing or just staring out of a window. But whenever I put on A Love Supreme, I have to be listening to it, every note. Sometimes I ignore what Trane is playing and listen to the wonderful things Jimmy Garrison is doing with his bass in the background or tune in to the percussion of Elvin Jones. They seem to have the music equivalent of good cop bad cop going on. One of them will be holding the piece together, keeping the time while the other goes crazy, then they swap over. But as hard as I concentrate, Trane always wins me back by the final segment, the one where you read the prayer at the back of the album and it matches every note that Trane plays. You can really hear that tenor sax speaking, but it’s more beautiful than any words could ever be. As a poet it lets me know that I’ll always be defeated and that’s okay.
I used to listen to A Love Supreme every night. Nearly ten years ago I lived in a small room in a Young Women’s Christian Association Hostel in Windsor. I worked as a gardener in a nearby theme park, getting up at five thirty every morning and getting back home by four in the afternoon. I’d usually end up knocking back a few beers or a bottle and a half of red wine. I’d bash out a few poems on an electronic typewriter, invite one of the resident ladies into my room to drink with me or just sit at the windowsill and stare out. That album would always be on in the background. I didn’t know what was happening with my life. I’d been kicked out of art school a year before and I didn’t want to be pushing wheelbarrows for the rest of my days, not knowing I’d be doing that for the best part of the next decade. I’d try reading a lot of philosophy, psychology and poetry. I’d take every word I read for gospel because it was in a published book, only half understanding it and I’d spout it at any poor bastard that looked interested. Nowadays, I laugh at the gibberish written in those books. The gardening, labouring and dustcart jobs taught me a lot more than those naval gazing academics ever could.
One thing hasn’t changed though. Whenever I put on that record, the world seems to shine, like everything that exists has come about in that very second, and that very second would last forever. Perhaps that’s why I don’t listen to it as often these days, because I might just end up believing in God again.