I can't imagine writing without sound. There is the rhythm of the words in my head, the looping, intuitive bits that just seem right and then there is the nagging flaw that hangs in my writer's mind like a sword of...like an icicle ready to drop and pierce the whole point of what I have been trying to say and mean. Then there is the outside sound that can be anything depending when and where you are writing. For the recent stories it was the Argyle Street debacle, the Bruegel ballet of the louche, the raucous and the violent. And the odd hen party souped-up with cans and whooping laughter. Topping that were the neighbours, their domestic whirr, their loving hiss. In tenements, everyone can hear you scream. And then, once the sounds of street and neighbours had been eliminated by noise cancelling headphones and/or by such a late hour that the outside world had finally come to its uneasy rest, then there was music, of notes and mood; of atmosphere and emotion.

In ‘Epigraphs’ from the eclectic yet consistently good ECM label, the combination of the cello and piano is deceptively simple, its complexity sneaking up on you. There is both a sense of mathematical ordering and improvisation; the precise yet gentle tones of the piano share audio space with the raw and rousingly strident cello. Of course there can be no words, jeez, how could there be words unless I was wanting to get Lit, to get hip, to quote some 45s or some long player, fitting in with some timely narrative. Not for me, music is in the abstract. Its notes can be companions, fellow travellers inside the head; its notes can be fought against, creating a furore, cascading a torrent of words that seem to just pour out in that stream of consciousness way (oh, sic). Maybe I should get a leotard and just do away with any intellectual pretence. This is writing as aerobics, each movement in time with a predictable rhythm. Hmm, maybe, but let me cling on to the belief that syncopation between the writer’s voice and the musician is a natural link, an empathic bond. All I know is that there are moments in writing ( but don't count them) that are better than sex, better than narcotics, better than that cup of tea. Finding moments of combination, where voices converge and where melody and narrative seem entwined is where music is not just audible but is syringed directly into the soul.

Toni Davidson was born in Ayr in 1965. He has edited ‘And Thus Will I Freely Sing’ (Polygon, 1989), ‘Intoxication: An Anthology Of Stimulant Based Writing’( Serpents Tail, 1998). His novel‘Scar Culture’ (Canongate) was published in 1999 and his short story collection ‘The Gradual Gathering of Lust’ (Canongate). To read Toni's story, 'Like a Pendulum in Glue' on the showcase section of this site, click here.

© 2007 Laura Hird All rights reserved.