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Obscure Objects Of Desire - Cutting Edge, July 1993

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Title: Obscure Objects Of Desire
Publication: Cutting Edge
Date: July 1993
Writer: Richey Edwards

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Richey James of the Manic Street Preachers gets all hot under the collar over his Walkman and C90

More than my Sega or sleep or other boy things. More than even my dog. It's private. And alone. No interruptions. Bus, train, plane, taxi, bed. A bullet in the head. Without a walkman travel is awkward. Pretend pretend. Smile and say what you don't mean to some fat piggy pork next to you. Nah. Agree with stupidity. Be politically in-correct.

Whatever it takes to shut them up. Or forever argue. No one likes each other anyway. Admit it. If you can't respect yourself how can you respect a single living thing?

Walkman makes silence bearable. Makes the silence inside bearable. Only donkeys amd Essex Man convince themselves that they have something in common with the stranger sat next door. Music is more than a fuck; more soul, more passion. A local aesthetic to take the pain away.

We are all worms, trivial little worms. But in Walkman world I am apart from everyone. I have voices in my head. "Wild Horses" and "Tart Tart!" Twentieth century technology I love you. Schools dress you in grey and you never know why til you leave. Music is the only difference. Adolescence = spend whole evenings making conversation and never say what I want.

With sound nothing matters, nothing touches, nothing remains. Read a book, maybe. Everyone comes to their personal Soma someday, I hope. Young boys find asylum in cunt, ass, drink, drugs, clothes, car, hair cuts, sport, money, holidays, violence but mostly each other. Lustful little dogs. Music elevates. I don't bother taping records that make you want to do anything. Say next to lagered, long haired, spotty ginger tom who thinks he's Lars Ulrich puts you off motion and air drumming forever. I only listen to records that make you sit there and not move. And feel sorry for myself. Self pity is the curse of the white male.

Aids. War in Bosnia. Ethnic Cleansing. Heart Disease might kill my generation in a decades time but self pity has killed our desire forever. Most of us already. In the Spanish Civil War a generation left home to fight for ideology. My generation can barely get out of bed. I wish I could truly desire world peace, emancipation, animal rights, unrestricted abortion. But I play my tapes first. "Yesterday" and "Get Me" and "Sweet Emotion" like everyone else. No faith, no God.

The only drive we have is self hate. We tattoo skin and pierce out bodies because we want to forget who we are, what we did, what happened. We are truly bored. We look at celluoid and see celluite. We wish we had bodies like Brad Pitt, smiles like Keanu Reeves. We know we never will. So give me a burger let me play my tape and what do I care.

My generation - Don't really care about a thing. Some people say things like 'Tories Out!' What does it actually mean? I understand handbags and glad rags. The Cross. The Rain Song. Let's Get It On. Take it all away for C90 salvation. Let's forget mirrors and scales. Ugliness and self loathing. Music is truth. Science - sometimes the only thing thst makes sense.

BBC2 lays guilt trip every Newsnight. They say 'ban "Romper Stomper"' and think they've saved the fucking planet. Just scraps of words. Censorshit. All rooms are the same temperature these days. All air smells the same. I never hear about that on the Late Show. So the only difference between you and the multitude egg shell white and antiseptic seats is what's playing in your head. You can't even pretend to read anymore. Someone always finds Dennis Cooper or Easton-Ellis offensive. Or scorns you for buying The Sun - Liberals are so fun and free these days. I love my Walkman because it cost me money. There is no emotional satisfaction unless you pay for it. Natural doesn't count. Going for a walk without a Walkman is fake. Without noise it is pointless. You can't pretend to feel safe with birds singing. Dulling melancholy. So thank you Mr Sony.