The room in which I now sit has been the subject of my daydreams for the past decade. Around the age of 20, when I first started cautiously entertaining the idea of becoming a ‘creative’, among my lecture note sketchings was the image of a room with two large speakers mounted on stands, one to the left and one to the right. Also pictured was a large workbench, upon which was laid out the tools of my trade – a laptop computer, computer keyboard and various MIDI devices. As time crawled slowly on, as it only can in your twenties, the images became more detailed, including various other instruments, cables snaking along the floor, and eventually other musicians to adorn those empty corners left in my playful imaginations. It was all a bit of harmless fun, really, like a teenager singing into an empty toilet roll.
But the idea that I could become a performing musician and self-employed music producer has just never gone away. It is a thread that connects me to the unreal, the impossible. I haven’t studied music since I was 16. I never performed in school plays, or did really good impressions and accents. I have watched others form bands, and recognized with muted envy the face of my contemporaries in the sleeves of beautifully packaged CDs. I managed a to put together a band practice here and there, and every so often played an open mike, but ambition makes for a lonely and frustrating bedfellow. Everything I have done is tainted with amateurish inadequacy. I want to be free to do all these things on my own terms, and my imaginary thread is all I have. I grip it tightly.