Souled out

Bleak days never seem to come in isolation; they feed on one another. Procrastinating things to panic levels, letting things slip through the cracks. Promising yourself the next morning you'll be up early to make the fresh start that's all you need to turn everything around and make it perfect; then hitting snooze and conceding defeat before you're even conscious. Weeks like this when professional disaster looms - and I know 24 hours from now it will be over, it will be ok. But it won't be spectacular, it might not even be good. There are days I barely recognise this person. Is it worse to feel too much or nothing at all?

There's a neat little scene in High Fidelity, Nick Hornby's study of Rob, a record store-owning manchild who ranks his break-ups like pop charts. He's moping in the store, fabulously named "Championship Vinyl", when a woman comes in and asks "have you got any soul?", and he thinks:

That depends, some days yes, some days no. A few days ago I was right out; now I've got loads, too much, more than I can handle. I wish I could spread it a bit more evenly ... I can see she wouldn't be impressed with my internal stock control problems though, so I simply point to where I keep the soul I have, right by the exit, just next to the blues.

This was going to be a fun post about Spoon and Cold War Kids, two totally white, hipster bands who nonetheless slay me with the soul in their tunes. But I guess til I get my own internal stock control problems sorted, I gotta lean on their lean, sparsely made songs, with spare keys and a crack in the throat, to get my soul fix(ed).