all saints night on polish motorway - nicc behind the iron curfain #whiskeymysticsandmen -

all-saint-night.txt

Nico was still exiled in her special seat in the bus, ashtray overflowing, wrapped up in patchwork sheepskin jacket, silent and withdrawn. The fog rolled by. We'd wipe the condensation from the windows, but there was nothing to see and nowhere to stop and eat, just grey fading into black.

Then lights started to appear in the blackness, figures, more lights. We'd drive on. The gathering of lights increased, we could begin to distinguish people, faces illuminated by candlelight, gravestones. We reasoned, as it was November 2, that it must be All Saint's Night. In Poland, perhaps, the dead have more significance than the living. We drove on through dark and empty villages, to find the outskirts, the graveyards alight with humanity. It continued for a couple of hours, and even when the friends of the dead had dispersed the candles were left burning on the graves. Then it was black night again.

Suddenly Nico leapt from her seat. "Look! It's Jim!" She peered into the rolling god. "I can see him..."

'Jim's here, in the back,' said Toby. 'Aren't you, Jim?'

I reassured Nico I was there.

"No-o-o. No-o-o... not you, Jim.' Nico continued staring into the night. 'Jim Morrison... I can see him... there... loook!' She pointed out the empty fog.

We all strained to see.

'Where?' asked Toby.

'Can't see fuck,' said Raincoat.

We carried on trying to discern the lead singer of the Doors out there in the nothingness.

"Hang on," said Wadada, squinting through his bifocals. "I think I might have clocked a visage..."

Sure enough, it was the Lizard King himself, a-writhin' around in his black leathers, sucking off the mike, dancing us all into an early grave. Like him, we all had died and been sent to Poland for our purple sins.

Excerpt from "Songs They Never Play on the Radio. Nico: The Last Bohemian" by James Young.