Cheeky Moon

By Alastair Craig Originally published on Cheeky Moon

25 November, 2015

Dear “Dreams” by Beck,

I’m sorry to bother you. You’re a busy song in heavy rotation, and I’m just a solitary listener with no idea how to begin. This is the first time I have written directly to a piece of music, and for obvious reasons I am not expecting a reply.

You probably don’t remember me on account of being a non-sentient recording. We met last week at Pie Face in Queen Street Mall: me sitting at the wobbly corridor table; you entering the room via cafe speaker.

I still can feel my posture straightening into meerkat-level alertness at the immediacy of your opening chords. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so instantly on the same wavelength as a piece of music; so sure of what a song was going for and capable of.

I can only describe it as an insatiable longing. As if the one-second-per-second rate at which your notes are delivered somehow isn’t enough. This energy has nowhere to go but the following two words: thank you.

I am addressing this letter to Capitol Records in Los Angeles. If it accidentally forwarded to your creator, the singer-songwriter Beck Hanson, I apologise for any confusion.

Yours sincerely, Alastair

***

3 January, 2016

Dear “Dreams” by Beck,

Sorry to bother you again. It’s 2am and you’re still running circles around my mind. For my own sanity I need to unpack why.

It’s not just your impressive length (although at 5+ minutes, you certainly give a lot of mileage) but what you do with it: those tender little flourishes to make every second feel worthwhile. The “oh”s between the lines; the “d-d-d-” before “dreams”. You fit pleasure into spaces other songs cannot.

It’s that glorious multi-layered “here we are” harmony at 3:42 — your finest moment — which I’m secretly convinced you added for me and me alone.

It’s the pauses, too; the comfortable silences we share. I really feel I can simply be myself around you, dancing like a dork in my living room without fear of judgement.

What we have here: it feels mutual. I fully accept I may be projecting. It’s late. I should get to bed.

Sweet dreams, sweet Dreams. Alastair

***

5 February, 2016

Dear “Dreams” by Beck,

I feel we can be honest with each other by now. Can we please address the elephant in the room?

We need to talk about that little guitar hook at 4:00. It’s a little… showoffy. It brings me back to music lessons as a teenager. This is exactly the kind of thing kids play when they’ve learned the pentatonic scale and want to sound wicked-rad with the distortion on (and oh god, have I been there). It’s not necessary. You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone.

I worry this is the music-fan version of some dipshit telling a woman she doesn’t need makeup. And look, if you’re having fun, of course you’re entitled to that. I just have to ask: are you truly doing this for yourself?

You don’t need to answer.

Your friend, Alastair

***

6 February, 2016

Dear “Dreams” by Beck,

I turned you off when my wife entered the room, and I’m worried about what that means.

If I go radio silent for a while, please know it’s not you. I have a few things to process.

Talk soon, Alastair

***

11 July, 2016

Dear “Dreams” by Beck,

What a special night that was. Like something, well, out of a dream. I was just thinking it had been a while, and there you were, shimmering in the window of Jet Black Cat Records; an aqua-blue vinyl single I could at last physically hold and cherish.

To hear your stripped-back acapella and instrumental mixes on the b-side… I know you don’t just let everyone hear you like that (I can’t find either track on Spotify). It is a privilege to be worthy of that trust.

That sublime “here we are” was even more beautiful than I imagined underneath it all. And — if you can forgive me for ever suggesting otherwise — I can see the guitar bit at 4:00 part of who you are. Love is about hearing the whole song and accepting the complete package.

I hear you. And I love you.

Your most ardent admirer, Alastair

***

15 December, 2016

Dear “Dreams” by Beck,

I’m sorry for those Facebook messages last night. Actually, I’m not sure who I could have possibly sent them to. I may owe someone else an apology.

Truly, honestly, I don’t mind that you share a melody with MGMT’s Electric Feel. You never claimed to be original. Maybe you’re a deliberate homage. And what I said about your lyrics; that was out of line. They’re upbeat and unburdened by subtext; exactly what they need to be.

I think we need to take a break. I’m playing you too often. I thought I’d made peace with your showoffy guitar bit at 4:00, but honestly? It’s starting to grate. Again, it’s not you, it’s me.

I’ll be in touch later. Promise. Alastair

***

17 January, 2017

Dear “Dreams” by Beck,

Just checking in to say I’m thinking of you. It’s a quiet day here. What are you up to?

:-) Alastair

***

24 August, 2017

Dear “Dreams” by Beck,

The track listing for Beck’s Colors album just dropped. I cannot wait to hear what the track “Dreams (Colors Mix)” entails. The idea that you still have more to offer excites me. I feel we could go on like this our entire lives.

Yours in anticipation, Alastair

***

1 October, 2017

Dear “Dreams” by Beck,

I’m not angry, just a little confused and disappointed — mainly at myself.

I heard you on Beck’s Colors album. It’s clear now we have different expectations for this. For us.

I don’t mind that you removed the swear word. It’s great, in fact. A sign that you might be open to the idea of bringing children into this.

But why did “d-d-d-dreams” get reduced to “d-d-dreams”? Why are there fewer “oh”s? On some level I get it. If Beck wants to perform you live, he needs to breathe at some point. But you’ve compromised yourself for him. Stepped down from your angelic cloud. Given yourself up to the realities of human limitations and ageing.

And that beautiful “here we are”; your heart and soul, the second I adored more than all others: gone. Replaced outright with that obnoxious, childish guitar wail. “Dreams” by Beck, we’ve talked about this. You knew this would upset me.

Maybe our priorities were never in sync. It was unfair of me to put you on this pedestal; to mistake a fun summer jam for a lifelong relationship. I committed too hard, too fast, and tried to make you into something you’re not.

You owe me nothing. I just wish we’d had the chance to talk about it beforehand.

I’m sorry. Alastair

***

3 February, 2018

Dear “Dreams” by Beck,

It was nice to hear you at Toowong Shopping Centre the other day. I’m sorry it was only your abridged radio edit, but I enjoyed our short catch up all the same. Even that playful guitar wail brought a smile to my face, like an old lover’s snore.

That turbulent time we had: it was beautiful, wild and doomed. But perhaps we could still share something moving forward. Something slower; more comfortable; able to coexist with other loves. I’m ready if you are.

Can we be friends again?

Thank you for your time, Alastair

***

6 February, 2019

How do we work?

Most of our ideas come from personal insecurities, real life grudges and the back of cereal boxes (or all three - see 2015’s Why Don’t You Love Me, You Lying Backstabbing Nutritional Index?)

The sketch can start as threadbare as a joke, a phrase or even one of Claire’s ideas. Usually at the point that she starts petulantly crying and cussing at passersby on the front porch will Alastair tear himself away from his collection of luxury sporks and consider working on a new piece of writing with her.

Alastair tends to bring fully formed premises to their scheduled meetings (the aforementioned crying and cussing on the front porch) and declare a vision from the outset (e.g. a wordy swipe at 1920s aristocracy, a wordy love letter to 1960s gangland musicals).

The writing itself is often performed by the pair seated side by side, or on opposite sides of the same desk via their attorneys. Claire, the stylophile and obsessive doodler, prefers to work with fountain pens. Alastair, the luddite and great-grandson of George J. Typewriter, prefers to write in pig’s blood.

Scientists Explain the Vengaboys

A temporal physics lecture by Cheeky Moon

Transcript:

Alastair: “Boom boom. Boom boom.”

Claire: The heartbeat of a generation. 

A: We all know the Vengaboys for their humanitarian work and their geopolitical influence. So it’s sometimes easy to forget that they began as lively pop musicians.

C: 1998 was… a difficult time, for those of us who still remember. In that bleak, post-Diana, post-Seinfeld world, there was a certain void that needed filling. A certain absence of meaning. Our hearts... they longed to sing again. And then suddenly, out of the blue…

Cue music sample: Boom boom boom boom! I want you in my room Let’s spend the night together From now until forever

A: “Let’s spend the night together… from now until forever.” How can all of eternity take place in a single night, in a single room?

C: Over the course of this 12-part non-refundable seminar, we’ll be examining just how the Vengaboys’ Milli Vanillian verse fits in with our current understanding of temporal physics.

A: Ladies and gentlemen, we bring you: The Vengaboy Paradox. 

A: Einstein theorised that time is relative. It can pass for each and every one of us at different speeds. Let’s say, for instance, that this room were travelling a million miles a minute. One night could pass in this room, but many years would pass to those in the outside world. This is, of course, highly improbable. Unless this room were on board the... The Vengabus.

CC: Indeed, to find the answer, we can’t just look at one song. We must factor in the broader picture the Vengaboys have been delicately brush-stroking throughout their two-album contract deal. 

Cue music sample: The Vengabus is coming And everybody's jumping New York to San Francisco An intercity disco The wheels of steel are turning And traffic lights are burning

A: “The traffic lights are burning.” The thermonuclear consequences of burning traffic lights imply astonishing speeds - far beyond those of any other pop artist recorded on the Sanity Top Ten Singles Chart. Even S Club 7, another musical group well known for their non-stop parties. 

Cue music sample: Don't stop movin' Can you feel the music DJ's got us goin' around (round) A: Let’s assume the S-Club party commences a-groovin while the Vengabus begins a-movin’. 

C: By the time the Vengabus reaches its itinerant destination of San Francisco, a single night will have passed for its occupants. However, at traffic-light-burning speeds, let’s assume the party bus has circumnavigated the globe 70 million times. Long enough for these beautiful, dewy skinned-dancers and DJs to wind down their S Club Party and age into obscurity.

A: Indeed, to an S-Club member’s fading mortal eyesight, this party in motion will have simply vanished. One moment it’s there, now it’s gone. This unit of measurement is known to those of us in the field as an Mmmbop.

Cue music sample: In an mmmbop they're gone In an mmmbop they're not there C: And so, the eternal Vengabus party may very well span the life of an S Clubber such as Rachel, once body-rocking, now hobbling on a replacement hip. 

A: Or Bradley, once jiggy with it on the d-floor, now unable to pull himself up. 

C: Or Jo, who had the flow, but now just shakes her head and wonders what it was all for. The party must end for us all. 

A: And yet… one must hope that the Vengabus’s wheels of steel are turning still, transporting a star selection of loose people cross country, teaching us always that time is what we make it. 

2022 goals still to tick off:

Release our web series