LYRIC: The Actor, The Cello, and the Dark, Dark Cloud (July 2025)

This one’s really more of a poem, as the song is spoken word, but hey — it counts:

I sat and watched a fallen childhood hero

sincerely sing and speak from literature,

over cello, violin, and piano

in Birmingham’s Symphony Hall.

It had seemed so funny as a kid

to see Venkman hitting on Dana

in her haunted New York apartment.

But these days it just reads like harassment.

Another woman’s life made worse

By an entitled man without boundaries.

But it’s still my favourite film.

Ray’s parents left him that house; he was born there!

Meanwhile my grandmother lived and died in Dana Barrett’s building:

55 Central Park West.

If there are ghosts, she might still dwell in the service elevator

where she fell dead after brunch at Tavern on the Green.

The same place the Keymaster, Vince Clortho,

invaded the body of Louis Tulley.

Another entitled man in violation of bodily boundaries,

which I think about as I try and square my enjoyment of the actor,

singing covers of Tom Waits and Sondheim,

with the circle of his alleged wrongdoing.

What else do you expect from a vegetarian

who knows he probably should be vegan

but is too lazy to do all that cooking and food prep?

The world is much more grey

than it was ever black or white.

A reference to Michael Jackson,

perhaps,

who I occasionally also still listen to,

although I know I shouldn’t.

Ghostbusters was the first movie I fell in love with,

and Thriller the first album.

My grandmother,

the one who died in Spook Central,

and who might have made my mother’s life hell sometimes,

used to send me clippings

every time Jackson was mentioned in the papers.

She didn’t know who he was!

Was more into classical opera than the King of Pop.

But she knew her grandson loved him,

and that was enough.

Just as I still loved my grandmother,

no matter what my mother’s feelings.

Whatever the actor might, or might not, have done,

his performance was beautiful that night in Birmingham,

on the same stage where,

the year of its grand opening,

my grandmother had travelled from America to take us,

unwillingly,

to see the CBSO.

My only memory was of Sir Simon Rattle’s

wild and wonderful hair.

All these years later,

I would give anything to watch that concert I ignored again,

and spend one more precious evening with my gran.

But instead I get my favourite ghostbuster,

putting a little love in my heart.

He gave me a rose as he took his bows,

which sits now drying in a cupboard.

An artefact of a memory

I didn’t realise how much I’d cherish

when I guiltily bought the ticket,

and felt somehow like I shouldn’t.