There is a knock at the door long after the time when door-knocking is acceptable.
You expect the worst:
a motorist with a furry question mark draped limply across outstretched arms, and a face widened and ghoulish with shock. But, you don’t have a cat. No pets in fact, although there is a robin you’re quite fond of that hops about the rockery.
a policeman – skin too taut and shiny to deliver bad news – asks you if he can come in. It’s about Jed, your son. He thinks it’s best to go inside, to be sat down. You are instantly unsteady on your feet, thrusting a palm against the wall before remembering you don’t know anyone called Jed, don’t have a son or any children for that matter. In fact, there is no name the policeman could utter that would unduly sadden you to hear of their demise.
a grotesque golem-like creature, oozing in multiple directions, gelatinous, shrouded with stink and decay. It manifests a limb, shudders it in your direction. You feel compelled to extend your hand and let the fetid gloop subsume it. In an instant, you see your futures, your past, different yous – all possibilities at once. You feel crippling pain and an occasional blinding flash of joy. The only response is to prostrate yourself before it and beg for another chance. You remember then that you have zero time for supernatural poppycock.
Jehovah’s Witnesses. Broadband providers. Charity fundraisers. Window cleaners. All hideous. Hawkers – the very worst.
But, no.
You turn on the outside light, fumble with your keys, percussively miss the barrel – make a real song and dance about opening the door.
It’s Jim O’Rourke – the bearded, bespectacled genius, long hair flailing in a light breeze. He’s holding a record, raising it up into the glow of your outside light, dead moths projected and mottling the cover that depicts a mirror ball half-smashed on a wooden chair.
You don’t know the album, but you take it. For a brief moment, you worry that you’ve made a mistake – it might be one of his more extreme avant-garde projects.
The spine reveals its name – The Visitor – and you offer Jim O’Rourke a generous nod, thanking him for bringing his album to your door, acknowledging the personal touch. He nods back and turns to face the gloom.
You place the record on the platter of your high-end record deck, wait for the valves of your amplifier to warm up, setting in motion the audiophile perks of a childless, partnerless, petless life.
A dazzling, delicate beauty emerges from your Danish speakers like a flutter of butterflies suddenly freed. Notes played by a kaleidoscope of instruments flit around you. The room feels alive, the four walls not quite recognisable as your own. You sit down in your favourite chair, seeking out its familiar depressions and contours. And then you let the music wash over you.
The layering of textures, the intricate interplay of horns, woodwind and pianos and numerous guitar tones. And then come the snare drum rolls and finger-plucked guitar runs you recognise from Insignificance, bringing everything into sharp focus. At times it opens out with an expansive countrified groove that recalls fellow Drag City stalwart Bill Callahan; at other times, it is insular and tiny.
You contemplate doing the second rinse of your recycling in the cooling suds of the evening’s washing-up water when a banjo emerges from nowhere. The brief but spritely bluegrass interlude quickly and seamlessly morphs into cool jazz. The baked bean tins can wait. You focus on the intense swing of the high hat, before getting pulled away by some gorgeous slide guitar. This is exhilarating and beguiling.
Over the course of 38 minutes, the music rises and falls, builds and breaks down. The tempos shift, but it is never jarring.
As the album closes out with a piano passage of overwhelming beauty, you are certain of two things: something has changed in you, and Jim O’Rourke is a genius.
You start to wonder if life should be lived in shifting tempos – a quickening here, an intense passage there, but punctuated with moments of serenity and wonder.
You’ve lived your life at a steady, even pace, one designed for economy and efficiency, and probably safety, not thrill or pleasure. This record makes you want to inhabit a world full of variety.
It might just be time to find a companion, you think, someone to share the highs and the lows. If another knock at the door comes, you might invite them in.
Originally published in the 2009 issue of Lunchtime For Wild Youth.
