Читать книгу Space O. The English Translation - Юлия Н. Шувалова - Страница 2

John was the last to leave. In the studio, where his friend was sitting on the floor, among pillows, guitars and sheets of paper, with his back on him, hung a heavy smell of cheap tobacco, in which they vainly tried to drown out despair. It was June 1969.

"Dave," he called softly.

The long-haired, skinny guy didn't turn around, but answered:

“What do you want?”

John was uncomfortable. After all, he was just a guitarist, his job was to play music. But Dave composed it. He also sang and acted. John admired him, but now he felt sorry for him. He, John, will go home now, he doesn't need to prove anything, he'll just eat his dinner and go to bed.

“Maybe you should take a walk?”

"Maybe," Dave replied, still not turning around.

“Listen, no one meant to offend you,” John walked across the room and sat by the window, opposite Dave. In the twilight that generously flooded the studio he noticed his friend's red eyes, but it was probably from tobacco. “Sorry, we smoked too much here.” Dave waved him off, and John continued:

“Everyone just wants to do something already, you know. We play what no one listens to. You live by your music, but over there," he waved his hand into the London twilight, illuminated by a lantern, "nobody has even heard of Woodstock or psychedelics. That's what the guys are saying: we need a song that the girls will listen to, like what the Beatles did. And then you can play whatever you want.”

Dave fell on his back with a loud groan.

"The Beatles can go to hell!" ‘Play what you want’ – no-one will let you play what you want if you start writing songs for girls! The Beatles know that very well, don't they?!”

Dave rolled over and buried his face in the pillow, and John heard faint sobs. He didn't know what to do, and it was awkward to leave now. The little finger suddenly began to itch, and John began to bite the burrs.

“Tony thinks I'm trying to hype on space. Like, everyone is waiting for the Apollo flight, and I want to get into the swing of things. He's an idiot: it's not about the Apollo, it's about me.” Dave propped himself up on the pillows and continued, wiping tears from his face, "You see, John, over there," he also pointed to the window, “it’s not Woodstock alone that they know nothing about. They don't know about anything at all. They think only about how to earn money for food and clothes. London is now a bunch of freaks in the same rags. I'm so tired of this, John! How can you think about clothes when there is space all around you!? Art is space, and music, poetry, cinema is space! ‘Odyssey’ does not get out of my head, Kubrick is a genius. On Portobello I found a record with Wagner, this is also space! But everyone wants The Monkeys. Yes, John, all that which I need is of no use to people THERE! And Hermie doesn't need it either! Parents – they don't care at all, methinks. I'm tired, John, I'm tired of being the only one who needs me.”

“Come on, we all need you,” John shook his head. “No matter what Tony says, but tomorrow he will still come to the studio.” Looking thoughtfully into the translucent June evening, he continued, “One always wishes everything had been fine the day before. You should take a walk, this smoke will drive you nuts.”

"Maybe it's for the best," Dave said. He was sitting cross-legged, with his long fingers wrapped around his face. John quietly left the studio.