PSYCHOMACHIA // matty healy

1.

The summer rain pelted down onto the pavement, adding a percussive rhythm to the usual sound of roaring cars from the London roads. I liked the thrumming sound it made - bringing instant serenity to the chaotic scene of people running with umbrellas flipping inside-out and my neighbours dashing to bring their hung-up washing inside. What I loved most about summer rain was that it didn't linger or give a half-arsed downpour. The clouds truly gave all their might yet half an hour later the sun would shine and birds would twitter as if nothing happened. I loved the aesthetically pleasing view of glistening raindrops from my old Victorian sash windows while I'd write poetry or songs, or even strum my guitar. I was beyond lucky and I knew it; I wouldn't change it for the world. I was also blessed enough to live within a ten minute walk of the studio where I'd often take myself in the early hours of the morning to spill my overflowing thoughts into a microphone and make them sound far more glamorous. The only nuisance was that the studio was shared and it was a pain bumping into other bleary-eyed musicians other than your band mates at three o-clock in the morning, especially when the person you bump into is a pretentious egotistical wanker who you were up against for best British group at the Brits the year prior. We didn't win, of course. He used to awkwardly smile at me every time our paths crossed and something about it enraged me so I started to just ignore him. Maybe it was the fact that our music was better and we'd rarely been recognised for it, or maybe it was that I couldn't stand the sound of his strained vocals through the supposedly soundproof studio walls. I'd see his girlfriend from time to time, it seemed she was his so-called 'coffee bitch' as I would always see her juggling lattes and flat whites and cappuccinos from the quaint cafe down the road. She was gorgeous, far too good for him and that also annoyed me. Not that it was my business but she could do far better - I would always flash a warm smile at her if she ever walked by. I did feel sorry for him in December when I discovered he'd gone to rehab,

"I haven't seen Matty here in a while, I saw Ross the other day so they're not on tour are they?" I remember asking Frida, our drummer. She was acquainted with their drummer, George.

"No, I heard from George he's in Barbados at some sort of horse rehab facility." She replied as she twiddled her drumstick.

"Horse rehab facility?" I tried my best to stifle a laugh, "What was he on?"

"Heroin, I think. I'm not sure how the horse comes into it I wasn't sure whether to ask."

"Jesus, I wonder when he'll be back." I couldn't help but feel guilty for how I treated him but in fairness, I knew he didn't like me either.

"I think in a few weeks - but I'm not too sure."

The next time I saw him was in the new year. I left him a bouquet of flowers with a note that read 'Welcome back! - Rosaline, Frida, Selma and Esther' and he sent a card back to thank us. That was the last time we acknowledged each other.

Once the rain cleared I made my way to meet the girls at the studio. It was around six o-clock in the evening, the air was still warm and the rain slowly began to evaporate from the pavement. I typed in the six digit code on the keypad on the studio door and it buzzed, letting me push the heavy door wide open and skipping inside. There was a slight aroma of weed and I couldn't tell whether it came from our room or the room opposite which belonged to The 1975. After entering our room and seeing the other girls set up - Frida searching for her drumsticks that she'd always forget where she put them down, Rosaline tuning her guitar and Selma messing around with a funky riff on her bass - I came to the conclusion it must be our neighbours that were smoking.

"Christ, Healy hotboxing the studio once again? What a surprise!" I rolled my eyes as I shut the door for our room.

"Would it be wrong to ask for a drag?" Selma laughed slightly,