Work Text:
Thom listens to Scott Walker 4 on repeat through his headphones, ignoring the rest of the band on the bus.
He stares at his own reflection in the window but cannot recognize himself anymore.
He is tired of modern buildings—dirty glass, shades of gray, silver metal, concrete, strobe lights, plastic bags dancing in the air. That's all his eyes see.
He hates jet lag, the award shows where celebrities pretend they're better than everyone else. But the thing he hates most is the incessant camera flashes.
Flash. Another stupid question from journalists. Flash. Another fake smile. Flash. Posing like I was ever cool.
The burnout is too much to bear, his brain is like a tangle of wires sparking fire. He repeats to himself: I'm not here. This isn't happening to me. I must keep moving forward. I only have to.
As the bus rolls on, his head resting against the cold window, he observes people on the streets blur and walk fast like a sped-up film. Thom feels nauseous, disoriented. In which city are we? Berlin? Paris? All cities are the fucking same.
He is drained by the unhinged energy of every place they tour. Sleep deprivation fogs his mind. God, when did I last sleep? As he glares at a giant ad for a useless product, he feels himself slowly becoming one.
The noise of the crowd and their indistinguishable words keep filling his head as if he didn't already have enough to think about.
His replies grow more bitter with each one. His bandmates are also starting to feel sluggish and incoherent, trading only cigarettes and cold stares backstage. They want to keep playing their songs but they're staring into an abyss of silence.
He remembers the joy of playing in high school. All their happiness has faded away. Now, corporations squeeze them dry. The big bosses don't care about whatever creative ideas they have in mind.
It's all part of a charade that they have to keep carrying on as long as they remain commodities.
The music industry's hunger consumes them—record labels, fans, even the art itself devours them. They are cannibals, feasting on them alive.
They can't escape the claws of the alienating consumerist characteristics of the end of the century.
They are completely alone. No matter how talented they are. Talent means nothing.
As Scott Walker's voice cracks through the headphones:
"City after city, granite gray as morning, heroes died in subways left behind."
Thom thinks: The worst part about falling so hard is never being able to hit the bottom.