On a dark night shortly before or after my seventeenth birthday I found myself at a party thrown by a girl I did not know. By the open window a curtain billowed, stained orange by the streetlight; all the while, to my intermittent distraction, dragons flapped in inky silhouette across its surface. Looking about the carpet writhed with dark patterns and the floor beneath it undulated gently. At some point I remember handling a rough ceramic vase, through the pores of which I could see and hear lava crackling. I was tripping fairly hard.
I don’t think I’d noticed the music until a friend went to change the disc, only, on experiencing some difficulty, to report from across the room that the drawer had been glued shut. We blandly accepted his assessment of the situation. So, for however long, we sat there and listened to Treasure by the Cocteau Twins. I slowly realised that I had to own the album and the next day I floated into Our Price I think it was, and plucked it from the racks.
Whenever I play the album four lines scored into its inner sleeve always give cause for a poignant moment. They were made by Tig, my brother’s cat, long since dead.
Cocteau Twins Lorelei
11 hours ago