Dexter catches a song on an illegal radio station. It's not that bad.
“Is your Spyder set to radio? Because mine isn’t,” Lindsey asks.
“Oh. Um. Well. Switch it to radio, okay? Pixel Kickit’s new song is on station 4,” Jim says, naming a new little pink-haired starlet who is mostly autotune.
“Pixel Kickit? Oh my God, I loved ‘R U the One’, ever heard it?” Lindsey switches her Spyder to radio. Jim nods, because when it comes to decisions he always does what won’t piss people off.
I can’t stand Pixel Freaking Kickit. Her voice is nasal, she claims to be bisexual but only makes out with girls to turn on other boys. That pisses me off. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be attracted to girls but want to wear makeup like them.
No. Not whatever. I don’t want to carry on about it, I know it’s not that bad. But seriously, fuck all those posers and people who weep about how impossible it is to be like me, when I am stuck like this, stuck being like this and stuck being screwed up and ugly on the inside.
I switch my Spyder feed to radio, but I switch it to something else. It’s not Better Living, that’s for sure. It’s one of those illegal radio stations, like out in the zones.
“...Defying, so for all you drag queens and professional pretenders, here’s a song for you, I really like this one, Los Campesinos, I think. ‘The sea is a good place to think of the future’. Enjoy!”
He sounds familiar to me. Maybe he's got an A.I. too.
Then the music starts, and it’s mellow and beautiful, it seems like it’s talking of bad things to come but in a good way. I clamp my hands over my ears to hear it better.
Oh..my...What is this?
It’s...different? Gorgeous. I close my eyes, just lost.
Then the words.
“I grabbed hold of her wrist, and my hand closed from tip to tip, I said you’ve taken the diet too far, you’ve got to let it slip, but she’s not eating again, she’s not eating again, she’s not eating again, she’s not eating again. I ask her to speak french and I need her to translate, I get the feeling she make it more significant. She was always too pretty for me to believe a single word she said, believe a word she said.”
There’s a break, and I can hear Lindsey calling me, but I ignore her, because this music is just too good.
“At fourteen her mother died in a routine operation from a general anesthetic. She spent the rest of her teens experimenting with prescriptions in a futile attempt to know more than the doctors.
SHE SAID ONE DAY TO LEAVE HER,
SAND UP TO HER SHOULDERS,
waiting for the tide.
TO DRAG HER TO THE OCEAN,
TO ANOTHER SEA’S SHORE.
and this thing hurts like hell.
But what did you expect?”
“Dexter, what are you listening to? Let me hear!” Lindsey pulls at my arm.
I want her to hear this, but not right now. Right now this song is mine.
“And all you can hear is the sound of your own heart, and all you can feel is your lungs flood and the blood course, But oh I can see five hundred years dead set ahead of me. Five hundred behind-”
Jim pulls my hands off my ears, so now they can hear it too.
“A thousand years in perfect symmetry.”
“What’s this? I’ve never heard it before,” Lindsey says softly, and I shush her.
“Best known left wrist right finger through all the southern states, on every video game machine they call her triple A. There were racists on the radio trying to give up smoking, the chat show host he joked ‘you have to wait for the government program’. You talk about your politics, and I wonder if you could be one of them, but you could never kiss a tory boy without wanting to cut off your tongue again,”
“Whoa. Who’s this? What station?” Lindsey asks me, and I just shake my head.
“A good place to look to the future is when you are sad at the sea with the salt up to your ankles and a view at the end of the pier. You may look down at your mother’s feet, and wish you could just float away, and the weather here is overcast, and the sky is the same shade of gray. So the landscape before you looks like the end of the world but to your left side and the right side either way is a crazy golf course. The sea is a good place to think of the future.”
“Whoa. Um. Wow,” Jim mutters. We’ve never heard lyrics like this before. This is probably illegal. But I don’t care. I’m crying, because this, right here, is how music is supposed to make you feel.
“And all you can hear is the sound of your own heart. And all you can feel, is your own sweat and the blood course, but oh I can see five hundred years dead set ahead of me. Five hundred behind, a thousand years in perfect symmetry. A thousand years, no getting rid of me. A thousand years in perfect symmetry.”
The song ends, and I hear someone say something over the radio.
“You are beautiful no matter how you are.”
This song...No other artist puts songs like this forward. Not Pixel Kickit or any other of those autotune people.
“What was that?” I ask, but Lindsey and Jim don’t know either.
I want to find who put that out there.
I want to find out who my DNA match is.
I want everybody to hear this song.
Jim and Lindsey discuss it, but I don’t care. It’s not just sound, or white noise. That was music.