The Recording was all the Proof They Needed
The old black disk lay unloved and unseen at the back of a cupboard. In front of it an old food processor had been gathering dust, and mould, for years, parts missing, the wrong plug. So much junk shoved unceremoniously in here, so much. The doors pushed shut. The sideboard itself (or is it a ‘dresser’?) barely holding itself together, the upper part at an alarming angle, teetering, surely about to drop.
The broken windows let the brisk winds inside, there is an autumnal storm brewing. From outside the entire house appears unkempt, unloved. No one can have lived here for decades. Yet, as they pass, what can they hear?
Music. The unmistakable disco sounds of Murray Head; someone is in the house, someone is there listening to Jesus Christ Superstar this very October morning, in the early part of the twenty-first century. There must be hope.