When Pete's alarm clock goes off, it's to the sound of "Woke Up This Morning" by the Alabama 3. He's never been to Alabama, and doesn't plan to. Never could stand the southern half of the US of A, just miles of swamp and fields and desert with a few little hellholes trying to call themselves cities; it's almost as bad as their northern half, and very nearly as bad as England. But they make good music, sometimes. He bought A3's CD because this song is the opening to the Sopranos, and he likes that show. Well, liked. He'd rented the second season, decided it was nonsense and hadn't bothered to keep track of it since. But he still likes the music. He listens to it for the beat, which he taps his foot to as he pours his coffee and turns on his computer, and has never really paid attention to the lyrics.Ain't it times like these that make you wonder if
you'll ever know the meaning of things as they appear to
the others: wives, mothers, fathers, sisters and
brothers. Don't you wish you didn't function, wish you
didn't think beyond the next paycheck and the next little
drink. Well you do, so make up your mind to go on, 'cause
when you woke up this morning everything you had was gone.
After Tink nearly got herself brained, he ordered her to turn off the damn iPod when she's on the job. People are trying to kill you and you decide to plug up your ears, that's just brilliant. This is probably the reason she's shooting him that dirty look as he puts his feet up on the dashboard and closes his eyes, Chopin's "Raindrop Prelude" filling his ears. Hey, it's gonna be a long stakeout, and it's not like he
needs to keep his eyes and ears open - that's what he's got Tink along for.I'm forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air
They fly so high, they reach the sky
And like my dreams they fade and die
Fortune's always hiding, I've looked everywhere
I'm forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air...
United! United! United!
He claps along with everyone else in the pub during the final shouts of "United!", same as he did years ago when he caught his first football match. He'd cheered on West Ham United in an idle sort of way before then, but his father'd never been much of a fan. It was when he first ran away from home that his new roommates and bandmates had discovered that Pete had never been to a game and determined to correct it. Which had also been the day he'd picked up his first black eye. Lots of firsts, that year. Somehow the chant and the game has gotten inextricably mixed up in his memory with nights spent on the couch, lousy part-time jobs and gigs that never seemed to work out, except for this one pub where the waitress knew him by name, even though she thought his music was shit. Which, he had to admit, she'd been right about.I'm addicted to stress, it's the way that I get things done
The Ramones, the Sex Pistols cycle through his iTunes as he types up a report, mixed in with classical and blues and jazz and rock and pop. He's not sure where half of it comes from anymore: CDs that Tink and John insisted he'd love (and were sometimes right about); or stolen from Ridley; or Dazzler's album that Cain had played until it got stuck in everyone's heads, much to her embarrassment. A few songs from Maureen, too, who always leaves her iPod on her entire playlist and lets it randomly match up song to moment, and claims that it's given her insight on cases in the past. Psychics. Go figure.
"Disintegration" comes on as he's copying down Pryde's cell number.What happened to the love we both knew
We both chased?
Hanging on a cigarette
You need me
You burn me
You'll burn me.
But he always pays more attention to the beat than the lyrics.