Interview with Oft Beat Echo in 1983. Crooner were an independent band from Glasgow and still to this day keep their hand in for their long term fan base with live shows and releases of a quality right up their with their youthful creations.
In his interview Crooner talked about ‘Isolation in Creation’ and discussed a random process he used to push through a difficult writing block early in the bands career.
This is the appendix of the various styles used. He shared in the interview how he wrote his thoughts in the style of Dr Seuss in an attempt to see from an abstract point of view the difficulties he was facing with a concept he wanted to create.
Here follows the promised other styles he played with to gain random points of view in addition to Dr Seuss.
The first section is the scene described by various authors and the second section poetry lyrics as if written by famous poets.
SECTION ONE: SCENE AS IF BY……
The Supermarket Scene if written by Charles Dickens.
Amidst the bustling aisles of the market square, where the cries of vendors and the clinking of coins filled the air, there wandered a man, burdened by the weight of his own sorrow. He moved among the shelves, his steps heavy and his gaze distant, as if the world around him held no meaning.
Then, as if summoned by some unseen force, a melancholic melody drifted through the crowded space, carried on the strains of a distant tannoy. It was a tune that spoke of bygone days, of memories long buried beneath the sands of time. And as the notes filled the air, the man’s steps faltered, his heart heavy with the weight of what once was.
Frozen in place, he stood amidst the sea of tinned goods and instant noodles, his soul adrift in a tide of sorrow. It was as if the music had cast a spell upon him, rendering him transparent and lost, a mere ghost haunting the aisles of the shop.
In that moment, hope seemed but a distant dream, a flickering candle in the darkness of his despair. He felt as though he would be trapped in this moment forever, forever doomed to wander the labyrinth of his own grief amidst the mundane trappings of the market.
But then, like a beacon in the night, a voice pierced through the silence, breaking the man from his reverie. “Do you work here?” it asked, the words like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.
Shaking his head, the man returned to himself, his gaze meeting that of a fellow shopper who had dared to intrude upon his solitude. “No,” he replied, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I do not.”
The other person nodded, a look of understanding passing between them. “Sorry too,” they said, their tone heavy with sympathy. “I just wanted this music turning off.”
And with that, they parted ways, leaving the man alone once more amidst the cacophony of the market. But though the music still played on, and the burdens of his past remained, there was a glimmer of something new within him, a flicker of hope amidst the darkness of his grief. And as he resumed his journey through the aisles, he carried with him the knowledge that, no matter how lost he may feel, he was never truly alone.
The Supermarket Scene if written by Jane Austen.
In the midst of a bustling market, where the chatter of vendors mingled with the rustle of shoppers’ skirts, there walked a gentleman whose countenance betrayed a burdened heart. His steps were slow and measured, his brow furrowed with thought, as he navigated the labyrinth of stalls and displays.
Then, as if summoned by fate, a plaintive melody wafted through the air, borne upon the strains of a distant tannoy. It was a tune that spoke of lost love and melancholy regrets, and as its notes reached his ears, the gentleman’s pace faltered, his gaze turning inward as memories long buried stirred within him.
Frozen in place, he stood amidst the hustle and bustle of the market, his mind consumed by the bittersweet strains of the music. In that moment, he felt as if he were transported back to a time when happiness was but a fleeting dream, and sorrow reigned supreme.
Surrounded by the bounty of the market – tinned goods and fresh produce alike – he felt a pang of irony, for in that moment, he himself felt like a prisoner, trapped in a world of his own making, with no hope of escape.
But then, like a ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds, a voice intruded upon his reverie, jolting him back to the present. “Pray, sir, do you work here?” it asked, the words spoken with gentle curiosity.
Shaking his head, the gentleman roused himself from his melancholy musings, meeting the gaze of a fellow shopper who had dared to interrupt his solitude. “No, madam,” he replied, his voice tinged with regret. “I do not.”
The other person nodded in understanding, a sympathetic smile gracing her lips. “Ah, my apologies,” she said, her tone filled with empathy. “I merely wished for the music to cease its lament.”
And with that, they parted ways, each returning to their respective errands amidst the bustling market. But though the strains of the music continued to play on, and the weight of his past remained heavy upon his heart, the gentleman found solace in the knowledge that, in this world of fleeting joys and endless sorrows, there were still moments of connection to be found, even amidst the most unlikely of circumstances.
The Supermarket Scene if written by Ernest Hemingway.
In the midst of the supermarket’s harsh fluorescent glow, a man walked with purpose, his steps firm and resolute. His eyes were fixed ahead, yet his mind wandered to distant shores, to memories he could not escape.
Then, like a sudden storm on a calm sea, a haunting melody pierced the air, flooding the sterile aisles with an unspoken sorrow. The man halted in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat as the music stirred something deep within him.
Frozen in place, he stood amidst the rows of canned goods and packaged foods, his soul laid bare by the melancholy strains. In that moment, he felt as though he were adrift in a sea of regret, with no shore in sight.
Surrounded by the banality of everyday life, he felt a bitter irony wash over him, like waves crashing against the shore. Here he was, trapped in a world of convenience and consumption, while his heart yearned for something more.
But then, like a beacon in the darkness, a voice broke through the silence, pulling him back to the present. “Excuse me, do you work here?” it asked, cutting through the haze of his thoughts.
Shaking his head, the man returned to himself, his gaze meeting that of a fellow shopper who had interrupted his reverie. “No,” he replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. “I do not.”
The other person nodded, a look of understanding passing between them. “My apologies,” they said, their tone softened by empathy. “I just wanted the music to stop.”
And with that, they parted ways, each returning to their own journey through the supermarket. But though the music still played on, and the weight of his memories remained heavy upon his shoulders, the man found a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness, a reminder that even in the bleakest of moments, there is still beauty to be found, if only one knows where to look.
The Supermarket Scene if written by Fyodor Dostoevsky.
In the dreary confines of the supermarket, a man wandered aimlessly, his soul burdened by the weight of existence. Amidst the flickering lights and the monotonous hum of the aisles, he moved with the weary resignation of one who has long since lost all hope.
Then, like a spectre from the past, a haunting melody filled the air, suffusing the sterile atmosphere with a sense of melancholy. The man froze in his tracks, his heart heavy with the memories it evoked, memories he had long tried to forget.
Staring into the void of tinned goods and instant noodles, he felt as though he were trapped in a prison of his own making, surrounded by the remnants of a life he could no longer bear to face. The irony of his situation was not lost on him – here he was, amidst the abundance of consumerism, yet utterly devoid of any true meaning or purpose.
But then, like a sudden gust of wind in a stagnant room, a voice shattered the silence, jolting him back to reality. “Excuse me, do you work here?” it asked, its tone indifferent and distant.
Shaking his head, the man struggled to find his voice, to articulate the emptiness that gnawed at his soul. “No,” he finally managed to say, his words hollow and devoid of meaning. “I do not.”
The other person nodded, their gaze lingering for a moment before moving on. “My apologies,” they murmured, their voice fading into the background. “I only wished to silence the music.”
And with that, they parted ways, leaving the man alone once more amidst the oppressive atmosphere of the supermarket. But though the music still played on, and the memories continued to haunt him, he found a strange solace in the knowledge that, in this vast and indifferent world, he was not alone in his suffering.
SECTION TWO: POETRY LYRICS AS IF BY……
AS IF BY WALT WHITMAN
In the aisles of sterile light, he doth roam,
A soul adrift in the mart’s grand dome.
A melody whispers, haunting, cold,
Stirring memories of tales untold.
Frozen he stands ‘midst the bustling race,
Translucent, amidst this commonplace space.
Canned goods and noodles, a cruel irony,
As he drowns in silent melancholy.
A voice intrudes, breaking the spell,
“Do you toil here?” it asks, but who can tell?
He shakes his head, lost in the haze,
A prisoner of his own troubled maze.
The stranger laments, their tone resigned,
“I seek to quell this music,” they remind.
And with that, they fade into the night,
Leaving him to his sombre plight.
Questions linger, answers unseen,
In this verse of sorrow, in this tragic scene.
Lost in the echoes of a forgotten past,
He wanders on, with no end at last.
AS IF BY JOSEPH BRODSKY
In the aisles of sterile light, he roams alone,
A ghost amidst the supermarket’s drone.
A melody, a whisper cold and bleak,
Stirs memories he struggles not to seek.
Frozen, he stands amid the mundane,
Translucent in this transient plane.
Canned goods and noodles, irony’s decree,
As sorrow wraps its tendrils ’round his plea.
A voice intrudes, breaking through the air,
“Do you work here?” A query, stark and bare.
He shakes his head, lost in his own despair,
A captive of his sorrow’s piercing snare.
The stranger sighs, with resignation grim,
“I sought respite from this melodic hymn.”
And with that, they fade into the night,
Leaving him to grapple with his plight.
Questions linger, in shadows cast unseen,
In this darkened verse, where answers teem.
Lost in the echoes of a time long past,
He wanders on, his future yet recast.
AS IF BY MATSUO BASHO
In the mart’s hush, a lone wanderer roams,
Amidst flickering lights and whispered tones.
A melody drifts, haunting and forlorn,
Echoing memories, tattered and worn.
Frozen he stands, amidst tinned fare,
A spectre adrift in the aisles’ glare.
Cans lined in rows, noodles in flight,
A soul trapped in the stillness of night.
A voice breaks through, soft and low,
“Do you labour here?” they ask, with a bow.
He shakes his head, lost in the stream,
A wanderer adrift in a world of dream.
The other, with a sigh, shares his plea,
“I seek but silence, from this melody.”
And with that, they part, in silent accord,
Leaving him to ponder, alone and floored.
Questions arise, like shadows in mist,
In this Basho-esque tale,
where answers resist.
Lost in the echoes of a memory’s trace,
He wanders on, seeking solace and grace.
AS IF BY WALLACE STEVENS
In the mart’s sterile realm, a lone figure strays,
Amidst the hum of lights in sombre haze.
A melody floats, melancholy and pale,
Eliciting memories that whisper and wail.
Frozen he stands ‘midst the mundane array,
A transient specter in the aisles’ ballet.
Cans and noodles, symbols mundane,
Echoes of existence, a relentless refrain.
A voice interrupts, piercing the air,
“Do you toil here?” with a dispassionate stare.
He shakes his head, lost in reverie’s gleam,
A wanderer adrift in a nebulous dream.
The other, with a sigh, shares their plea,
“I seek but the silence, from this cacophony.”
And with that, they part, in a mutual gaze,
Leaving him to grapple, lost in the maze.
Questions linger, elusive and sly,
In this Stevensian world, where truth veils its eye.
Lost in the echoes of memory’s embrace,
He wanders on, seeking solace and grace.
AS IF BY EMILY DICKINSON
In marts of light and sterile air,
A solitary soul doth fare.
‘Midst humming aisles, a melody’s drone,
Stirring echoes of memories unknown.
There stands he, frozen, lost in time,
A wraith amidst the mundane climb.
Cans and noodles, symbols of plight,
Encase him in the depths of night.
A voice breaks through the silent hum,
“Work ye here?” the query, glum.
He shakes his head, in quiet repose,
A wanderer amidst life’s throes.
The other, with a sigh, laments with care,
“I seek but silence in this air.”
And with that, they part, as shadows do,
Leaving him to his thoughts, askew.
Questions linger, in the dimming light,
In this Dickinsonian world, veiled from sight.
Lost in the labyrinth of memory’s embrace,
He wanders on, seeking solace and grace.