To Lyndon, Memorial Device and Tim, with love.

Once, man made fire. Now, man makes sound. The spectrum of sound is as infinite as life itself and the possibilities of life require a soundtrack. The circle of life. The meaning of sound. There is nothing but this – and love. And so when a man plugs in his amps and pedals and anything else he can find; suddenly he is a God. He is a creator of sound and of possibilities. And suddenly there is a new depth in the world that wasn’t there just a moment earlier.

When that sound is a giant, he is the creator of mountains and cities and seas. When that sound echoes, he is the creator of time. When that sound is all encompassing and absorbs every molecule in the air around you and you can feel that, he is the creator of space. The creator of space, where one pluck of a string can reveal the universe like a pirate unrolling a treasure map. X marks the spot. The creator has spoken and with a tweak of a button he can speak again, in a new language with a new fresh audience.

Another man sees your video and he thinks. We are small and everything we touch is big, he thought. There is no truth here, only sound and its creator. He will create the landscape on which I walk and think and breathe and eat and listen, he thought. Glory be to a new noise made by a guitar and some pedals. Glory be to just dicking around really and finding something that has power and savagery and life. Glory be, he thought. This is new and yet you’ll probably never be able to recreate that exact sound again. Gone forever. A sonic tragedy, he thought. Lovely feel of late period Joy Division, he thought.

Everything comes back around, he thought. Histories combine and mix and sporadically they get muddled together. The creator may never find that sound again but we will all hear it forever. He has already created a city and a river and trees that sway and echo with his reverb. Musicians have killed at will before. There are many lost souls in the mud of this very river, this city, he thought. Ghosts have wandered here and died here all over again, he thought. Ghosts and metaphors. Deals have gone down and gone wrong. Murderous revenge sought. Drinks spilled and drinks continue to be spilled here and there, hovering above the original pubs and dens of iniquity. The towers of industry and heaven. I’m standing on it all, he thought. The creator built it all through sound, he thought. Through pedals and guitars and currents. The whole city is obsessed with revenants of an earlier age, whether people know it or not. We live it and act it and feel it in everything we do. The city’s past always there, always haunting the present through sound. Now, there is a new sound, he thought. We are disciples.

The creator, this God that was spoken about was a man called Lyndon. He made good music and people listened. Did the universe move, unrolled like a map? Perhaps. What we do know for sure is that the narrator is a perpetually lazy individual and he realised very quickly that he had no intention of stretching this rubbish out to 2,000 words. So, to those of you gathered here today reading this blog and perhaps seeking out that mythical video recorded on a phone, all we ask of you is to believe. To trust that it will be found, that this isn’t a sonic tragedy, that there can for once be a happy ending.

Ladies and gentlemen, raise your glasses. In Lyndon We Trust.