GORDON HUNTER and THE WANDERING ROCKS

Flashback to 1999: Young piano virtuoso Gordon Hunter is on scholarship at the Guildhall School of Music in his native England. A double major in performance and composition, he is already being hailed as modern classical music’s next “big thing.” It was quite the surprise, then, that in his first solo piano recital, he departed from his anticipated program of Chopin Etudes by launching into a free-form jazz improvisation based on several Chopin motifs. Gordy’s behavior grew more eccentric, as he began to embrace rock, soul, and particularly 80’s new wave music, incorporating stylistic elements of all into his compositions, which were now deemed highly controversial. Fast forward to present day: Gordon Hunter is still the same precocious, rebellious youth, only now he has a few new tricks up his sleeves. Upon dropping out of college in 2001, Hunter relocated to the States, settling in Hartford, CT, where he soon became proficient at guitar, bass, and a wide array of synthesizers. It was in Hartford that Hunter formed Gordon Hunter & the Wandering Rocks, a unique mix of performance art, catchy retro new wave rock stylings, and interpretive literature. Based on a series of vignettes written by Hunter in which he envisions himself as a middle-aged man in the midst of a midlife crisis, the band, which features the always charismatic Hunter on several instruments as well as lead vocals, provides the musical backdrop to this piece of interpretive literature. However, you don’t need an English degree to appreciate Gordon Hunter & The Wandering Rocks; the well-crafted, danceable songs are instantly memorable and the sheer uniqueness of the stage show is enough to provoke any music lover’s interest.

New Wave, Britpop, Indie Rock, Pulp, Blur, Police, The Smiths, Stereophonics, Supergrass, David Bowie, XTC, Men at Work, James Joyce

GORDON HUNTER AND THE WANDERING ROCKS

SELECTED NARRATION TO ACCOMPANY SONGS

(demo v 1.0)

email: gordonhunterrocks@yahoo.co.uk

PHOTOGRAPH

Gordon Hunter shook off the dust that encapsuled the tattered shoebox: PHOTOS 1980-88 MARTHA. He smiled mentally. Always has to label everything, as if to spoil the surprise of discovering old heirlooms. Tis a lethargic night, moon fast asleep, tucked in a blanket of clouds. Now's as good a night as any to reminisce.

-Gordon, what have you gotten yourself into? I've spent all day fixing the attic up proper and within a day you've gone and upset it!

He shook his head, and cast innocent eyes upon his wife of nearly twenty years.

-A naughty boy am I. Go on, put a pot on the cooker, leave me alone.

She made an indignant noise in the back of her throat but didn't move. He was studying each picture, holding it in the soft glow of the lone hanging light bulb above. Pictures from the University. In Europe on holiday. All smiles; reminds me why I was so attracted to 'er; she used to wrinkle her nose when she smiled, before she got self-conscious about it. Another one on holiday. A lad in a varsity jacket.

He paused, then curiously held it back to the light, paining his eyes to see clearly.

-Who's the fellow in this 'un?

Martha shook her head and sauntered over.

-'Tis someone that's given me a lifetime of exasperation, but I love 'im anyhow.

He looked confused.

-This fellow? What's the name?

Her smile ceased and her open face turned critical.

-Well, that's you. . .Don't you recognize yourself? I mean, you done put on some weight since then but there's no mistaking.

He studied the photo. A beaming smile. Eager eyes. A face that displayed a love of life like an advert, a walking advert for happiness. Nobody's sold me happiness lately, but the chap in the photo seems to have ample to spare.

Martha carefully crept back down the stairs, musing out loud. Exit music. Matching the cadence of her step.

-'Twas soon after we met, down at the strand. Do you recall? I was singing, humourous-like, and you queued up declaring it was the most lovely voice you ever heard, or some rubbish. Spoke in that wretched Cockney back then, thank goodness ya got rid of that. But it was dear to me, just the same. I knew you were the one. . .but you still had eyes for what's-her-face.

-Bloody hell! I told you. I suppose I was a rather foolish lad. You oughtn't bring up bygones that way.

He watched her leave then returned to the photo. Surely this was not me; I never fancied myself to be this fit. No creases around the eyes or salt n pepper in the hair then, no sir. Age is a devilish bugger indeed--sneaks up on you as soon as you let your guard down. And so jolly--God, I'm such a miserable wretch now. No more pints these days--a cup of tea is leisure for me. Funny how we hang on to such foolish things as photographs. Humans aren't meant to look back and yearn for bygone days, the way I see it. We're meant to adapt and change and grow, let memories fade over time. Censorship it is. Keeps one forward-thinking. Yet I reckon I'll keep these photos my whole life and grow depressed upon gazing at them every time. If I had but known that all I'd have to show for my youth was a box of fleeting memories, photos that I can't even identify, that I keep for no good reason save for posterity's sake, that do nothing but mock what a sad old coot I've become. Aye, that was me. But it's not me. If I had but known. . .

WHAT DID I GAIN BY LOSING YOU

Her waiting eyes were themselves weighted with a burden of guilt, but intertwined with an honest intention. He could see that; it made the pain even more unbearable. The life he had spent countless days fantasising had burst into nothing: Jane Hunter was never meant to be more than a reoccurring dream character. In dreams the two shared a flat, meager but furnished with their silent and utter understanding, growing young in each other's company. Till death do us part. The softly curious eyes that once drew him in were the same weighty eyes that terminated this dream: quite a paradox this love is.

-I've changed. . .It's not your fault at all.

Freeze frame. She was more beautiful and pure in this time of heartbreak and transgression, perpetual windblown hair, ageless skin. Mental photograph: A memory of a girl once so dear to me. It'll pass in time. Time heals all wounds, so they say. First week or so unbearable, then gradually human adaptability triumphs. Recounting past mistakes now; any words of reparation that may revert this inevitable. . .Naught. The point of no return.

-I'll always remember what we had. I am truly thankful to have spent so much time with you, I really am. It's just not the right time right now. . .maybe someday....who knows?

Hope springs eternal. Better to cling to irrational hope than crush the spirit. Is it? Crushing of spirit is