The pill is disintegrating, lodged in my throat like a swollen seed, sprouting dry and ticklish as it reaches back toward tongue and lips. I need a drink, to sluice it out, wash it down and carry myself away. The lights pulse like a migraine and the music is a song I recognise. Stumbling toward the stage, I grab at the singer, trying to tell him that I know the lyrics and how important it is that I know the lyrics, trying to drink him dry. And then it hits me – I just invaded Nick Cave’s personal space.
No Wave is short, free and noisy.