If you had the time to lose,
An open mind and time to choose,
Would you care to take a look,
Or can you read me like a book?
October 2004
Nighttime. Sea salt and engine oil. Low light above me. Soft chatter and revving gears. Wake waves lapping gently to our port. Maiden. Late. Time is always on my side.
I have no idea where I am. Not exactly. Somewhere in the Venice lagoon. That much is certain. Beyond that I can’t say and I lack the language to ask.
I boarded this waterbus from the airport with some vague idea it would take me to the main island. This is not, I begin to suspect, a direct route. We seem to be going around the houses. Or rather, around the islands. I have a hostel bed booked somewhere in the city, but it’s exact location is also a mystery at present. One problem at a time.
My only anchor in this sea of uncertainty is the music playing from a yellow tape deck hanging from a yellow handle on a rusty nail in the pilot’s small, plastic sheeted cabin. It took me a moment to recognise it. Iron Maiden. Somewhere in Time.
Haven’t heard this album in years. One of the few 80s Maiden albums I don’t seem to own on CD. I wonder why. It’s one of their best. I own most of the others from that decade. Killers. Piece of Mind. Seventh Son. Why not this one?
The only album I don’t like from this era is Number of the Beast, but that’s more about the production than the actual songs. Actually, it’s probably because I heard most of those songs first on Live After Death (also the first Maiden album I heard) and the album versions sound too slow by comparison. It’s like Bring the Noise. It’s impossible to listen to the original once you’ve heard the beefed up version Public Enemy recorded with Anthrax. Yeah boy.
I caught the tail end of the opening track, Caught Somewhere in Time, as I boarded the boat with everyone else. The size of a small bus with the amenities of a third class Victorian railway carriage. Hard wooden benches arranged in rows. Sat perched on the inner edge, rucksack wedged between my knees, one foot spilling out into the aisle. The music penetrated my consciousness, but I felt too disorientated and tired from travelling all day to register it right away. By the time the opening lick of Wasted Years kicked in, I knew where we were.
October 2004
Nighttime. Sea salt and engine oil. Low light above me. Soft chatter and revving gears. Wake waves lapping gently to our port. Maiden. Late. Time is always on my side.
I have no idea where I am. Not exactly. Somewhere in the Venice lagoon. That much is certain. Beyond that I can’t say and I lack the language to ask.
I boarded this waterbus from the airport with some vague idea it would take me to the main island. This is not, I begin to suspect, a direct route. We seem to be going around the houses. Or rather, around the islands. I have a hostel bed booked somewhere in the city, but it’s exact location is also a mystery at present. One problem at a time.
My only anchor in this sea of uncertainty is the music playing from a yellow tape deck hanging from a yellow handle on a rusty nail in the pilot’s small, plastic sheeted cabin. It took me a moment to recognise it. Iron Maiden. Somewhere in Time.
Haven’t heard this album in years. One of the few 80s Maiden albums I don’t seem to own on CD. I wonder why. It’s one of their best. I own most of the others from that decade. Killers. Piece of Mind. Seventh Son. Why not this one?
The only album I don’t like from this era is Number of the Beast, but that’s more about the production than the actual songs. Actually, it’s probably because I heard most of those songs first on Live After Death (also the first Maiden album I heard) and the album versions sound too slow by comparison. It’s like Bring the Noise. It’s impossible to listen to the original once you’ve heard the beefed up version Public Enemy recorded with Anthrax. Yeah boy.
I caught the tail end of the opening track, Caught Somewhere in Time, as I boarded the boat with everyone else. The size of a small bus with the amenities of a third class Victorian railway carriage. Hard wooden benches arranged in rows. Sat perched on the inner edge, rucksack wedged between my knees, one foot spilling out into the aisle. The music penetrated my consciousness, but I felt too disorientated and tired from travelling all day to register it right away. By the time the opening lick of Wasted Years kicked in, I knew where we were.
The sad thing is, I know how long these songs run, so I know how long we’ve been chugging along at walking pace through the waters at the tip of the Adriatic. Heaven Can Wait is nearly over, which lasts seven minutes on its own. The two before that are five minutes each. Add that to the end of the opening track and we’ve been moving for at least twenty minutes.
I should have been at the hostel hours ago. But my plane from Gatwick was delayed and then we landed late due to storm weather. Frequent cracks of lightning seen through the cabin portholes. The captain apologised over the Tannoy, declaring it the worst storm he’d seen in years. So we circled Venice Airport for three quarters of an hour; the cloud cover too thick to even catch a sight of the Venetian lights blinking below us.
There must have been a quicker way to get where I need to go. But it’s late and my Italian is limited to ciao and grazie and so I followed the crowd and boarded this waterbus with everyone else. And now I’m stuck here. The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner plays with mocking irony. I really don’t want to be still sat here by the time Alexander the Great begins. And yet I kind of do. I’m late anyway. May as well be late to a good soundtrack.
This is the end of a whistle stop tour of three cities. Three days in Dublin, following the trail of James Joyce. Then a couple of days in London with trips to the Tate and an all female production of Much Ado About Nothing at the Globe. Now four days in Venice. I’ve spent too much money in the capital cities and it’s the end of the working month. Venice is going to be a frugal experience.
If I ever get there. The last whistle-stop tour earlier this year was more successful. Flew into Paris for a couple of days, rolling around the Metro system reading Hemingway’s The Garden of Eden and seeing the sights. Then a long train ride to Zurich on the first day of February. Reading from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man at the side of Joyce’s grave on the occasion of our joint birthday. Frustrated by all the museums being closed on a Monday. Tuesday bored in Geneva. Half six flight to Amsterdam on Wednesday morning. Sat in a coffee shop by nine. Finding the American Book Exchange. Spending too much money on second hand books.
I reach into the inner pocket of my green Parker jacket. Nestling there is a Penguin Classics copy of Dostoyevsky’s Notes From the Underground and The Double. Black cover. For a moment I wonder if it’s one of the refugees rescued from Amsterdam. But all of the books I bought there are American press. And second hand. Left there by American backpackers. The Dostoyevsky is new. Must be from Waterstones. Manchester. Deansgate branch. Swapped it out for the Raymond Chandler, Philip Marlowe anthology I’ve been reading since John Lennon airport. Silver cover. Also Penguin. Also purchased on Deansgate. At least now I can listen to the BBC radio productions of The High Window and The Little Sister that I’ve been saving until I read the novels.
Another stop. People board. People alight.
The album moves on to Stranger in a Strange Land. I remember the video being one of the worst examples of lip synching I’ve ever seen. Not Bruce’s fault probably. Screwed up in post production with the audio track being out of phase with the images. Not by a lot but enough to be noticeable. But then it doesn’t help that it’s a live performance overdubbed with the studio version of the song. Looks instantly fake. Ironic given the lack of live recordings from that tour. Three live albums released from the Fear of the Dark tour (a particularly weak album), but nothing from Somewhere on Tour, which is meant to have been one of the best. A live album from that period would rival Live after Death.
And yet Stranger in a Strange Land is one of the album highlights. Steve’s chugging bass intro. The Smith penned lyrics that contain many of the same themes as Wasted Years (his other main lyrical contribution to this album). Also the notes of Adrian’s soulful guitar solo stretching out like the decades elapsed since the eponymous stranger perished in the Arctic and was preserved in ice (apparently based on a true story and not, as some think, named after the Robert Heinlein novel of the same name – it’s not a Steve Harris song after all). Having sat here for more than half an hour, slowly losing the feeling in my legs as each minute passes like an hour, I know what the slow passage of time feels like. It’s the uncertainty that does for me. If I knew where I was going I could sit back and enjoy the ride.
God I love this album. Next pay day I’m going down to HMV at lunchtime and buy a copy. Slip the naked CD into the CD folder I carry for playing music on my Sony CD Walkman. A far cry from when I first went travelling on my own. An extra bag in addition to my rucksack just to carry around all of the tapes I wanted to listen to. The millennium. Four years since, but seems an age ago.
Déjà Vu is starting. Probably the weakest song on the album, but it does always remind me of the Monty Python sketch. At this point Alexander the Great can no longer be avoided. My only hope is that once it starts I don’t end up at my destination before the song ends. At about nine minutes, that is a distinct possibility. Mind you, I could still be sitting here by the time the next album finishes. And knowing my luck it will something by Oasis or Coldplay or something equally hateful.
My son, ask for thyself another kingdom,
For that which I leave is too small for thee. I should have been at the hostel hours ago. But my plane from Gatwick was delayed and then we landed late due to storm weather. Frequent cracks of lightning seen through the cabin portholes. The captain apologised over the Tannoy, declaring it the worst storm he’d seen in years. So we circled Venice Airport for three quarters of an hour; the cloud cover too thick to even catch a sight of the Venetian lights blinking below us.
There must have been a quicker way to get where I need to go. But it’s late and my Italian is limited to ciao and grazie and so I followed the crowd and boarded this waterbus with everyone else. And now I’m stuck here. The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner plays with mocking irony. I really don’t want to be still sat here by the time Alexander the Great begins. And yet I kind of do. I’m late anyway. May as well be late to a good soundtrack.
This is the end of a whistle stop tour of three cities. Three days in Dublin, following the trail of James Joyce. Then a couple of days in London with trips to the Tate and an all female production of Much Ado About Nothing at the Globe. Now four days in Venice. I’ve spent too much money in the capital cities and it’s the end of the working month. Venice is going to be a frugal experience.
If I ever get there. The last whistle-stop tour earlier this year was more successful. Flew into Paris for a couple of days, rolling around the Metro system reading Hemingway’s The Garden of Eden and seeing the sights. Then a long train ride to Zurich on the first day of February. Reading from A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man at the side of Joyce’s grave on the occasion of our joint birthday. Frustrated by all the museums being closed on a Monday. Tuesday bored in Geneva. Half six flight to Amsterdam on Wednesday morning. Sat in a coffee shop by nine. Finding the American Book Exchange. Spending too much money on second hand books.
I reach into the inner pocket of my green Parker jacket. Nestling there is a Penguin Classics copy of Dostoyevsky’s Notes From the Underground and The Double. Black cover. For a moment I wonder if it’s one of the refugees rescued from Amsterdam. But all of the books I bought there are American press. And second hand. Left there by American backpackers. The Dostoyevsky is new. Must be from Waterstones. Manchester. Deansgate branch. Swapped it out for the Raymond Chandler, Philip Marlowe anthology I’ve been reading since John Lennon airport. Silver cover. Also Penguin. Also purchased on Deansgate. At least now I can listen to the BBC radio productions of The High Window and The Little Sister that I’ve been saving until I read the novels.
Another stop. People board. People alight.
The album moves on to Stranger in a Strange Land. I remember the video being one of the worst examples of lip synching I’ve ever seen. Not Bruce’s fault probably. Screwed up in post production with the audio track being out of phase with the images. Not by a lot but enough to be noticeable. But then it doesn’t help that it’s a live performance overdubbed with the studio version of the song. Looks instantly fake. Ironic given the lack of live recordings from that tour. Three live albums released from the Fear of the Dark tour (a particularly weak album), but nothing from Somewhere on Tour, which is meant to have been one of the best. A live album from that period would rival Live after Death.
And yet Stranger in a Strange Land is one of the album highlights. Steve’s chugging bass intro. The Smith penned lyrics that contain many of the same themes as Wasted Years (his other main lyrical contribution to this album). Also the notes of Adrian’s soulful guitar solo stretching out like the decades elapsed since the eponymous stranger perished in the Arctic and was preserved in ice (apparently based on a true story and not, as some think, named after the Robert Heinlein novel of the same name – it’s not a Steve Harris song after all). Having sat here for more than half an hour, slowly losing the feeling in my legs as each minute passes like an hour, I know what the slow passage of time feels like. It’s the uncertainty that does for me. If I knew where I was going I could sit back and enjoy the ride.
God I love this album. Next pay day I’m going down to HMV at lunchtime and buy a copy. Slip the naked CD into the CD folder I carry for playing music on my Sony CD Walkman. A far cry from when I first went travelling on my own. An extra bag in addition to my rucksack just to carry around all of the tapes I wanted to listen to. The millennium. Four years since, but seems an age ago.
Déjà Vu is starting. Probably the weakest song on the album, but it does always remind me of the Monty Python sketch. At this point Alexander the Great can no longer be avoided. My only hope is that once it starts I don’t end up at my destination before the song ends. At about nine minutes, that is a distinct possibility. Mind you, I could still be sitting here by the time the next album finishes. And knowing my luck it will something by Oasis or Coldplay or something equally hateful.
My son, ask for thyself another kingdom,
I mouth along to the speech that opens the song, wind howling in the background. I wonder who the actor that performs this is. The voice is vaguely familiar but I can’t place it. Wonder if it’s the same guy who did the reading from Revelation on Number of the Beast. Bet it’s some famous Shakespearian who didn’t want to tarnish his reputation with being openly associated with Iron Maiden but secretly a massive fan.
This is one of Steve’s book report songs. Like Rime of the Ancient Mariner or To Tame a Land, here Harris does the life of Alexander of Great in Cliff Notes form. I mock, but the aforementioned are some of my favourite Iron Maiden songs. The overlong words and complicated cadences with which Steve likes to torture Bruce. Bruce virtually rapping during the final section of this one. Another great Adrian Smith solo in the middle there. Eastern European mode . 7/8 time signature in places. Immensely silly in places, but metal is silly. That’s why we love it.
The song barrels along even as the boat ambles at the same frustratingly glacial pace. It’s over far too soon. See? This is of what I was afraid. The tape ends and the pilot eventually replaces it with a fresh one. Poison. Look What the Cat Dragged In. I have to get the hell off this boat. This now constitutes abuse.
I’m about to stand up and attempt the British equivalent of causing a fuss when I notice something in the near distance. An arrow tipped square tower piercing the sky that I recognise from Canaletto’s paintings of Venice. The must be St Marc’s Square. To quote the Cat from Red Dwarf: Hey, hey, hey, we’re moving in the right direction now.
I’m about to stand up and attempt the British equivalent of causing a fuss when I notice something in the near distance. An arrow tipped square tower piercing the sky that I recognise from Canaletto’s paintings of Venice. The must be St Marc’s Square. To quote the Cat from Red Dwarf: Hey, hey, hey, we’re moving in the right direction now.
I mount the gangway with my rucksack slung over my shoulders. Humming snatches of Maiden songs, I walk the short distance to the entrance into Piazza San Marco. It’s late and low lit. Water from the lagoon seeps up through grills in the floor. The outdoor seating of the expansive cafes are virtually deserted at this time of night and this late in the season. In my left hand are clutched several sheets of A4 paper, on which are printed my hostel reservation details. I hope that even with a lack of Italian, I can point at the address and ask for directions. I hope it isn’t far. I hope it isn’t too late. Time s always on my side, I hum without much conviction.
For the next quarter of an hour I flounder from one café bar to the next in a kind of alcohol-free pub crawl. At each stop some friendly Venetian points me in the right direction, but I understand too little to get much further than the next square and have to start the process all over again. At this time of night the cafes are about the only places still open and the language barrier coupled with the inebriated state of my Good Samaritans make for slow progress. Lots of shouting between the groups of men that huddle around the printed sheets in my hand. No doubt laced with anti-English slurs and graphic insults against tourists. I only hope one of them isn’t sending me down a blind alley.
Which is exactly where I find myself. On a street which is apparently the one I’m looking for but I can’t see any sign of a hostel. I wander along the length of the narrow passage of cobble stones that end at the edge of the nearest canal.
A shadowy figure emerges from a doorway. I screw my courage to the sticking place and approach him. “Scusi.” The old Venetian points me halfway back down the street. With a little bit of effort I find the place I’m looking for. I ring the bell and answer the soft Italian voice emanating from the intercom. A buzz releases the red painted door to reveal a passage and a staircase.
It’s long since midnight as I’m greeted at the top of the stairs by a tall blonde man in his late twenties who instantly makes me feel overweight and underdressed. Marco takes my passport and books me in and before long he is leading me down a short corridor to a dorm room maybe forty feet long by twenty five feet wide. The only light comes from flashes of lighting issuing from the sky. I have made it just in time. Rows of single beds line the room. Everyone else is in bed and asleep. I store my luggage under the bed and quickly undress. Claps of thunder explode in what feels like right above the building. My head rests on the pillow. My eyelids are heavy.
A Jeremy Hardy Speaks to the Nation CD plays in one ear, the CD player whirling gently beneath the pillow. Someone snores somewhere below. White light illuminates the back of my eyelids. Tired. Late. My son, ask for thyself another ferry boat. For that which I leave is too glam for thee. I have this terrible feeling of déjà vu. Much ado about nothing really. Time is always on my side.
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