Spring in London is a painting. It's expressive, poetic and full of soft green and pink hues that linger notes of crushed magnolia and cherry blossom petals. The nights are long and enjoyed on wicker patio chairs, drinking cheap French wine while smoking rolled cigarettes down to the skin on your fingers. The warmth of spring excuses the rules as it ushers in new electric energy. This energy follows as you welcome the warm sun in the morning, and birds sing to you songs that have existed for thousands of years. In these moments, when you hear these songs and bask in the warmth, you let love into your soul.
It was a Friday morning in mid-May when I met Damon Albarn. Our orchestra group had been practicing to open for the Gorillaz in London's Victoria Park the following Friday evening. I didn't know much about Damon before I met him other than he was the much revered boyish frontman of bands that seem to have special access to multiple generations. He walked into the auditorium wearing clothing that looked comfortable but completely meaningful. As I quietly studied his movements, I noticed a Sigillum Dei necklace on top of a canary blue striped button-down that left traces of Santal 33 and cigarettes lingering throughout the air. His teeth, full of gold veneers, shined as he smiled widely at a percussion section in awe of his unmistakable yet enigmatic vibe. His calm but assertive voice felt deeply familiar and pacifying, like the feeling of meeting someone in a dream who hugs you and makes you feel safe.
One by one, we introduced ourselves, starting with Kate in strings and ending with Kevin in brass. I could sense nervousness as each group member shyly provided Damon with an anecdote, mentioning frivolities like their favourite Blur song or the limited edition Gorillaz merch they bought in Japan. Damon listened respectfully and with genuine curiosity as the wheels in his head turned mechanically, pondering how our character and unique, understated talent could contribute to his larger-than-life vision. When it came to be my turn, I looked Damon directly in his tired, blue eyes and told him my name. He asked how long I had played the violin, and I fumbled my way through an answer about starting at six but never taking it that seriously. He smiled and responded with, “well, clearly, you did a bit.”
I would nervously rest my violin on my chin and wait for direction while watching Damon command the room. His stern but friendly approach made it apparent that his years of experience have given him the gift of subtle but powerful control.
As Damon approached the microphone and soulfully sang in a brooding lower register, he kept his eyes fixed on the string section. At this moment, I became unconsciously entangled by the energy of a connector, someone who can pull the magic out of an individual or space and show it to spectators as if they're holding gold in the palm of their hand. Standing above me, watching me like a teacher, his energy filled my body with a longing equally as devastating as it was tempting.
The beat would pick up, and Damon would jump in excitement as vibrations from the orchestra pit would send him to the place he craves. The place he needs to exist in, or he loses hope. When the song stopped, he smiled at me as if letting me know he felt it. He felt it deep within himself, and when I recognized this, my body became tightened by an invisible rope pulling me close to him. I had to prove that I could feed him the energy he so desperately needed.
Silence would fall over the room as the rehearsal finished. The space would become sparse as musicians left to enjoy themselves in Battersea Park down the street. Damon would approach the string section, insisting that we join, as days as warm as this are rare in London.
We walked to the park as a scattered group and Damon engaged us with outlandish tour stories. I would pretend as if I could relate to someone whose life floated on a cloud—forever moving from one spot to another in a realm that seems almost mythical. In the dazedness of walking in the heat, I felt my mind beginning to trick itself as the exhilaration of new love crawled up my body and into my heart.
We approached Battersea Park, which resembled a Georges Seurat painting with sunbathers sprawled across a hyper-green field. We would find our group sitting partially under a large oak tree that playfully fanned us anytime a gentle wind would strike. Remnants of sounds, including a Spanish guitar nearby, created the perfect soundtrack to a memory. Damon would take a seat to my right and remove his shoes before opening a chardonnay bottle with a corkscrew thrown at him from across the circle.
I would sit quietly and watch the scene unfold, and like a tableau from a silent film, it became motionless and muted as I attempted to embrace the moment. Damon's blue eyes would meet mine, and I felt a closeness yet a grave uncertainty, knowing that he would likely return to being nothing but a Google search towards night's end.
As night loomed, the group would begin to disperse. Some, much drunker than others, followed the direction of their excitement, excitement that was built collectively after a long day of sitting in the sun and playing to the sounds of our past and our future.
Damon would turn to me while putting on his shoes, and in my panicked mind, all I could think of saying was:
“After you leave today, can you remember my name?”
He looked at me as if sensing a profound longing and, in his calm but assertive voice, responded:
“I won't forget your name, Anna. Who else can I rely on to produce the uniquely beautiful sound you did today?”
As we stood together in silence, Damon inched his body close to mine and watched the sun travel hurriedly over the horizon. He would then collect his belongings and say goodbye, hugging me before walking up the shadowed hill.
I would sit alone beside my violin case and look up at the outline of a willow tree branch swaying above my head. I felt sadness, knowing the unattainability of my desire but a jolt of excitement and warmth, knowing that I at least got a glimpse. Like spring, deep, unmarked affection only exists long enough to feel like a dream, and sometimes that's much better than the real thing.
Spring in London is a painting. It's expressive, poetic and full of soft green and pink hues that linger notes of crushed magnolia and cherry blossom petals. The nights are long and enjoyed on wicker patio chairs, drinking cheap French wine while smoking rolled cigarettes down to the skin on your fingers. The warmth of spring excuses the rules as it ushers in new electric energy. This energy follows as you welcome the warm sun in the morning, and birds sing to you songs that have existed for thousands of years. In these moments, when you hear these songs and bask in the warmth, you let love into your soul.
It was a Friday morning in mid-May when I met Damon Albarn. Our orchestra group had been practicing to open for the Gorillaz in London's Victoria Park the following Friday evening. I didn't know much about Damon before I met him other than he was the much revered boyish frontman of bands that seem to have special access to multiple generations. He walked into the auditorium wearing clothing that looked comfortable but completely meaningful. As I quietly studied his movements, I noticed a Sigillum Dei necklace on top of a canary blue striped button-down that left traces of Santal 33 and cigarettes lingering throughout the air. His teeth, full of gold veneers, shined as he smiled widely at a percussion section in awe of his unmistakable yet enigmatic vibe. His calm but assertive voice felt deeply familiar and pacifying, like the feeling of meeting someone in a dream who hugs you and makes you feel safe.
One by one, we introduced ourselves, starting with Kate in strings and ending with Kevin in brass. I could sense nervousness as each group member shyly provided Damon with an anecdote, mentioning frivolities like their favourite Blur song or the limited edition Gorillaz merch they bought in Japan. Damon listened respectfully and with genuine curiosity as the wheels in his head turned mechanically, pondering how our character and unique, understated talent could contribute to his larger-than-life vision. When it came to be my turn, I looked Damon directly in his tired, blue eyes and told him my name. He asked how long I had played the violin, and I fumbled my way through an answer about starting at six but never taking it that seriously. He smiled and responded with, “well, clearly, you did a bit.”
I would nervously rest my violin on my chin and wait for direction while watching Damon command the room. His stern but friendly approach made it apparent that his years of experience have given him the gift of subtle but powerful control.
As Damon approached the microphone and soulfully sang in a brooding lower register, he kept his eyes fixed on the string section. At this moment, I became unconsciously entangled by the energy of a connector, someone who can pull the magic out of an individual or space and show it to spectators as if they're holding gold in the palm of their hand. Standing above me, watching me like a teacher, his energy filled my body with a longing equally as devastating as it was tempting.
The beat would pick up, and Damon would jump in excitement as vibrations from the orchestra pit would send him to the place he craves. The place he needs to exist in, or he loses hope. When the song stopped, he smiled at me as if letting me know he felt it. He felt it deep within himself, and when I recognized this, my body became tightened by an invisible rope pulling me close to him. I had to prove that I could feed him the energy he so desperately needed.
Silence would fall over the room as the rehearsal finished. The space would become sparse as musicians left to enjoy themselves in Battersea Park down the street. Damon would approach the string section, insisting that we join, as days as warm as this are rare in London.
We walked to the park as a scattered group and Damon engaged us with outlandish tour stories. I would pretend as if I could relate to someone whose life floated on a cloud—forever moving from one spot to another in a realm that seems almost mythical. In the dazedness of walking in the heat, I felt my mind beginning to trick itself as the exhilaration of new love crawled up my body and into my heart.
We approached Battersea Park, which resembled a Georges Seurat painting with sunbathers sprawled across a hyper-green field. We would find our group sitting partially under a large oak tree that playfully fanned us anytime a gentle wind would strike. Remnants of sounds, including a Spanish guitar nearby, created the perfect soundtrack to a memory. Damon would take a seat to my right and remove his shoes before opening a chardonnay bottle with a corkscrew thrown at him from across the circle.
I would sit quietly and watch the scene unfold, and like a tableau from a silent film, it became motionless and muted as I attempted to embrace the moment. Damon's blue eyes would meet mine, and I felt a closeness yet a grave uncertainty, knowing that he would likely return to being nothing but a Google search towards night's end.
As night loomed, the group would begin to disperse. Some, much drunker than others, followed the direction of their excitement, excitement that was built collectively after a long day of sitting in the sun and playing to the sounds of our past and our future.
Damon would turn to me while putting on his shoes, and in my panicked mind, all I could think of saying was:
“After you leave today, can you remember my name?”
He looked at me as if sensing a profound longing and, in his calm but assertive voice, responded:
“I won't forget your name, Anna. Who else can I rely on to produce the uniquely beautiful sound you did today?”
As we stood together in silence, Damon inched his body close to mine and watched the sun travel hurriedly over the horizon. He would then collect his belongings and say goodbye, hugging me before walking up the shadowed hill.
I would sit alone beside my violin case and look up at the outline of a willow tree branch swaying above my head. I felt sadness, knowing the unattainability of my desire but a jolt of excitement and warmth, knowing that I at least got a glimpse. Like spring, deep, unmarked affection only exists long enough to feel like a dream, and sometimes that's much better than the real thing.