B O N D P H O N E.
Words and pictures by Chris Lamb.

Three days. Guitars clang like fire alarms of the insides of my skull: Pixies, Clash, Costello and The Thermals. A dash of TV on the Radio for mad love and ragged breath, some Rufus Wainright for perspective. Tom Waits and Mates of State records spin like tea leaves, entrophy pulling them towards prophecy. It's all so much smoke between fingers now.

Three days. Time start-stop-starts in broken waltz steps and days wreck and bend like Dahli against the pre-flight slippage, lending each moment the weight of just before rushing out to meet the Mexican army. A rush of last drinks and talk over cigarettes with enough casual breaking and entering to keep things interesting. Tonight is riding shotgun for two hours for whiskey with my best friend. Tomorrow, Friday, just more trying not to fall down. Still life with echo, waiting to catch up with the rest of me in progress.

Three days. Pop music abandon as chemical reaction, burning through veins like sunlight through fog. This is what it means to cresendo, to move frictionless along the speakers-push-air swell of a hundred-strong choir drenched in feedback and hammer drums. To be held together by speed and trust. To define and be defined by velocity.

Three days. Then air, then summer, then everything. Strummer Effect go.