Working on a story the germ of which comes from working on a show featuring Brian Wilson of the Beach Boys in 2006. He was apparently in not great shape then and seemed uncertain of exactly where he was. It was deeply moving to see him sat at the keyboard in front of what was essentially his own tribute band, one of whom looked like I imagined the young Brian Wilson out to have looked like but in fact hadn’t. It was an uncannily deconstructed event. It made me wonder about reality and who anyone is and who the man on the stage was at that time, was he imitating himself? and who the audience were paying to see. They certainly weren’t paying to see an ageing man who spent the whole show sat down and whose damaged voice was largely underscored if not effectively overdubbed by the members of his band. They seemed to have paid to be sat in the same room as the physical body that had originated in the young man who had sung their dreams. I wondered what they saw and also what they took home with them. Why the desire to touch the hem of the garment, kiss the ring of the Pope, visit the mausoleum? Not sure at all. Sound, vibrations, reverberations. Who are we and what becomes of the sounds we make? Are the remnants of all the sounds ever made drifting through the universe?