Dear Catastrophe Stuart,
Dear Catastrophe Stuart,

Well, for cryin’ out loud, man! It’s about time you grew a set of balls. I’ve spent this entire rainswept weekend in Madison – actually, it’s been sunny all weekend, but when I read your diary entry for your latest album, I started to get “sympathy weather” – anyway, I’ve spent this impossibly-sunny-and-yet-rainswept weekend driving around town listening to your disc, bouncing on the steering wheel to “Step Into My Office, Baby” as I once again find myself in the McDonald’s breakfast time drive-through line, breezing down the post-rush-hour Beltline at sunset, gazing out over that marshy area between South Towne and Monona where the highway bridges the Yahara River to the tune of “If She Wants Me” spiraling – or rather, creepething - back down the State Street parking ramp and turning up “Roy Walker” so that the cashier can hear its sunny San Francisco Vintage 1966 harmonies as I hand him my coinage and give him a cheeky wink.

I’ll have you know that the cashier is my soon-to-be-husbear’s ex. A sad man really. Hopelessly ugly too. They saw each other for a brief time between James’s wives, but that’s a story for another day. He always recognizes me. I can tell by the way he doesn’t really look at me when he’s looking at me. Is it wicked not to care?

We need to talk. Step into my office, Baby. My guess is that you have Morrissey seething right now. I can see him walking down The Beach That Armageddon Forgot, cursing your name, and his own towering irrelevance – doesn’t he have a new album out this fall – furiously re-writing lyrics to previously released songs in order to smite you. “Stuart on the Guillotine,” anyone? How is it that in a single song you manage to tell a first-person story about inappropriate sexual relationships in the workplace and make it sound both victimized and hilarious. Oh, and sexy too. I love those trilling flutes and the song rolls along like a jalopy on a gravel road. You naughty, naughty boy.

I spent this afternoon trimming shrubs and clearing brush in my garden. I imagined myself as a gay George W. Bush, dutifully and manfully tending to my expansive Texas ranch (actually, it’s just a 9 x 11 fenced-in area behind our condo in the Madison ‘burbs – I can dream, can’t I?) for a weekend photo op. My, doesn’t the President look so powerful and strong? Look out, Terrorists! I imagine Maureen Dowd writing even as I lament the annoying sting of all the scratches and grass cuts I’ve accumulated on my arms, legs, and forehead. And look at the size of that package! Brit Hume would exclaim. Baby is wearing those shorts!

Of course, I wasn’t always the impenetrable bulwark of manhood you see before you now. But I guess that’s something we have in common. I confess, that I, like one of those just-a-little-bit-too-sensitive locker room boys who lashes out just-a-little-too-vehemently when his masculinity becomes a punchline of other boys’ jokes – I confess, that I’ve at times put you and your music down in order to look tougher. But today, I forswear that behavior – or shall I say, behaviour – just as you (the oh-so-maudlin “Lord Anthony” aside) have forsworn the religion of pouty retro-sensitivity and rediscovered your rocks on songs like “I’m a Cuckoo” and “Stay Loose.” By the way, how much did you have to pay Elvis Costello for the rights to “Stay Loose”. Oh, you wrote that one? Sorry, my bad.

In “If She Wants Me”, you say “If I could do just one near-perfect thing, I’d be happy.” Me too. But, I daresay that you’ve got nothing to worry about. “If She Wants Me” is pretty darn near perfect. Meanwhile, I pathetically struggle to stretch the boundaries of music criticism, foregoing the usual frolicking I’d normally be doing on such an evening of rare October beauty as I attempt to convey to you and my modest readership what exactly it is I love about your new album. Would you believe I’m wearing shorts right now? But, what of it, if I spend the evening inside, hidden away from what I can only imagine is a sunset of breathtaking radiance over the prairie, attempting to articulate the inarticulatable – namely, the life-fulfilling near-perfection of a song like “If She Wants Me”?

And by the way, you’re absolutely right about Felt. And Lawrence is a beautiful, beautiful man.

Till next time.

Yours catastrophically,
Paul

Yours catastrophically,
Paul

P.S. Why don't you ever play Madison?

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"Dear Catastrophe Waitress" by Belle & Sebastian
Rough Trade/Sanctuary Records
Released 10/7/03

Produced by Trevor Horn
48 min.

SONGS: Step Into My Office, Baby - Dear Catastrophe Waitress - If She Wants Me - Piazza, New York Catcher - Asleep on a Sunbeam - I'm a Cuckoo - You Don't Send Me - Wrapped Up In Books - Lord Anthony - If You Find Yourself Caught In Love - Roy Walker - Stay Loose

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MORE BELLE & SEBASTIAN:

The Life Pursuit (2006)

Books (EP) (2004)


Recommended: Yes