In previous editions of "Long Player," we have soundtracked games in the NBA and the NFL, in an attempt to tap into their essence. In doing the same for soccer, one cannot currently look beyond FC Barcelona, whom many are earnestly bracketing with the greatest teams of all time. So dominant are they at present that one can even talk of there being such a thing as a generic Barcelona game. So who better to turn to than — —, player with [Generic Barcelona Opponents], who has kindly agreed to provide us with this playlist, reflecting his experience against the fearsome Blaugrana machine.
The following are the songs that ran through my head during the [Generics'] recent game against Barcelona. I tend not to listen to my own stuff in the bus to the stadium, or in the dressing room before the game. I get my listening done at home, and trust it to drown out whatever Coldplay song my teammates have had blasting out of the team stereo.
PRE-GAME
1) Manic Street Preachers, "Prologue to History"
Barcelona always remind me of the Manics. There's the obvious connection, with one of the band's biggest hits (to which "Prologue" was a B-side) being a tribute to the International Brigades, who fought against Franco's Nationalists in the Spanish Civil War. There's also the relentless self-mythologisation. Half the Manics' songs are about themselves: about Richey Edwards, their former guitarist and lyricist who disappeared in 1995; about how much they dislike their fans; about the fact that Nicky Wire would rather do the hoovering and watch cricket than be a rock star. Barça are forever banging on about how special they are: about their youth system, where they apparently create young geniuses in their laboratories instead of risking letting humans breed them; about their style of play (they invented beautiful football, you know); about the fact that they don't have a sponsor's logo on their jersey (if you don't count the swoosh that's been on there for years, or the Kappa logo that was there before). With both the band and the soccer club, the world cleaves neatly into those who adore their audacity and those who are sickened by their bombastic self-regard. For God's sake, Barça's motto is "Més que un club" (more than a club) - focus-grouped for maximum vexation.
But it's the line "I don't wanna be a prologue to history" that sticks in my head, as I hoped it would. It's getting to the point where every Barça game feels like an historic step on the road to an historic event of historic, historic proportions, like Obama's primary campaign. (Personally, I reckon that in two years' time, people will look back on their praise of Barça and feel a tad embarrassed.) Our city is being graced with the presence of gods; the return game will be on Mount Olympus, no doubt. The coach has been telling us to put it out of our minds, but this is what we've had to deal with all week. If it's not random people in the street, it's journalists. If it's not journalists, it's distant cousins ringing up, looking for tickets ("Hey, long time no see! Still married? Great. Say, you wouldn't happen to have..."). Pro tip: don't go to the barber's the day before you play Barcelona.
FIRST HALF
2) Sly and the Family Stone, "Underdog"
But we don't wanna be a prologue to history. We have to take this cannon-fodder status we've been given and use it to our advantage, even take some pride in it. Thing is, Barça aren't unbeatable. They do actually lose from time to time. Worse teams than ourselves have rattled them. Worse teams have disrupted Barça's play just enough to make the difference, and Barça know it. Me and couple of the other lads, we've been cautiously bullish in the press. I got the sense the city was slipping away from us a bit this week: that even our own supporters were thinking more about the show-for-the-ages Barça were going to put on than about our prospects for a result. It's been like listening to half a million people pronounce Cirque du Soleil with exaggerated accuracy. We needed to let it be known that we intended to actually do something, not just accept our fate. Did anyone listen?
3) The Auteurs, "Everything You Say Will Destroy You"
Barcelona's thing - okay, one of their things - is that they are phenomenally good at keeping possession of the ball. They play in packs; none of their players are ever isolated when they have the ball; there is always someone to pass to. Moreover, every one of their players is blessed with a fine touch, and many of them seem to possess the ability to see into the future. But at first, things are pretty even. We press them, in a disciplined way, and keep them from getting into a rhythm, or from having any quality possession at all. We haven't had any either - the game has been pretty scrappy. But we'll take scrappy for now, and we'll take it for the last eighty-five minutes as well, thank you very much.
4) Brian Eno, "Discreet Music (excerpt)"
And then... Just like that, they get a hold on the ball, and things change. We have, of course, been thoroughly briefed about Barça. Our plan, after our initial spirited bounciness, is now more or less to defend an imaginary line forty yards from our goal, packing the space in between with ourselves. We're putting 95% of our effort into defence at this point. We've seen other teams do it before. Chelsea so, so nearly made it work in the Champions League a couple of years ago, for example. It's an age-old soccer strategy: keep the other team in front of you and they can't do any harm. But Barça are fearless here. Honestly, it's fear that's driven us into retreat, and they can sense it like a sudden drop in temperature. They play into our newly staked-out fort so casually it makes us swallow our collective breath momentarily, before we catch ourselves and spring to defence. But you can't get the ball off them, so your only hope is to force them down a dead end. But then they just go back and start again, maintaining total control the whole time. On the odd occasion they do cough it up, they swarm on you, throwing a coat over your head and picking your lunch money from your pocket. It's relentless and strangely non-aggressive. I am reminded of the face of the penguin in that Wallace & Gromit film.
Some time in the 70s, Brian Eno was confined to bed after an accident. A friend came around to visit, and before she left, she put on a record of 18th century harp music. Unfortunately, she left the volume too low. Eno was unable to get up and change it, so he had no choice but to take it in. Noticing how this low-level sound seemed to blend in with his surroundings, Eno had the inspiration for "Discreet Music," thus inventing ambient music.
Some time in the 00s, I was confined to bed with an injury. A friend came around to visit, and before she left, she put on a copy of "Discreet Music." Unfortunately, she left the volume too low. I was unable to get up and change it, so I had no choice but to take it in. And you know what? It was fucking infuriating.
On a completely unrelated note, we still can't get the ball off them.
Barcelona score.
5) Stereolab, "Cybele's Reverie"
"Cybele's Reverie" pops into my head about now because it's beautiful and sad, I guess.
Our fans were really getting into it in the first five minutes, but soon fell more or less quiet. I can't work out where their disappointment ends and their rapture begins. It's as if they can't quite bring themselves to express their giddiness as they would like to, for form's sake. I saw a few camera flashes leak from the throng when Barça scored.
For the rest of the first half, it's more of the same: "Discreet Music," forever and ever. The only time we can get near Barcelona is to kick one of their players as he brings the ball close to one of ours and passes it at the last moment. We start getting a bit tetchy towards the end of the half, truth be told, but OH DEAR LORD, do they ever make the most of it. Iniesta and especially Busquets, after a while, don't even wait to be kicked before they fall to the floor, pleading with the referee for righteous justice. I think of emo, but since all emo sounds the same to me, I'm actually imagining...
6) A kitten, "vomiting"
[Vomiting kitten recording misplaced.]
It's a kitten, but it's vomiting.
Barcelona score.
HALF-TIME
Around the world, commentators and Twitter people catch their breath before, ahem, expressing their feelings about Barça...
7) Richard Hell & the Voidoids, "Love Comes in Spurts"
SECOND HALF
Barcelona score.
8) Television, "Marquee Moon"
In "Marquee Moon," there is a solo in the middle which lasts four or five minutes. There has already been one solo, as well as three verses/choruses, which have all been great, so it's not like the band have anything left to prove at this stage. But they keep going, with Richard Lloyd's stabby rhythm guitar interlocking with Fred Smith's bass riff. And on top of this solid foundation, Tom Verlaine goes off on one, improvising a dreamy solo. After it ends, the whole band stops, as if there's no logical way to proceed. Then, the drums kick in, the bass riff starts up, and they're away again.
Barcelona score.
9) Coldplay, "Clocks"
[Both author and editor have agreed for the benefit of society to not embed the above song here.]
Am considering faking injury and getting shitfaced.
10) Jorge Ben, "Ponta de Lança Africano (Umbabarauma)"
No Spanish-language songs pass through my consciousness during the match, but hey, Portuguese is basically Spanish sung through the nose anyway. And yes, the song is Brazilian and about an imaginary footballer, whereas Lionel Messi is Argentinian and a real footballer, but watching him lead this Barça attack still reminds me of this song. Why? Because it's unquestionably awesome. I can imagine being a songwriter, hearing "Ponta de Lança" and being (a) captivated by its simple genius, and (b) lulled into thinking that I could write something that would top it. I would listen to the song over and over, working out every little trick and kink that makes it what makes it what it is. When I reckon I just about have it sussed, I start writing my own tune. Within thirty seconds, I give up and start loathing the song.
Incidentally, this is a number which is often playing when I'm in my happy place. It's all a tad confusing at the moment.
11) Supergrass, "Mansize Rooster"
Ohgogohgodohgod. One of our lads manages to nick the ball and pass it to a teammate, who passes it to another teammate. In our giddiness at putting three passes together, we find ourselves bearing down on Barça's goal, and - Christ on a Segway - we score. Like "Mansize Rooster," the move feels like a burst of Madness, as if we've just nicked a load of Mars bars from the sweet rack and gotten away with it.
Our supporters cheer like parents who can't believe their kid got an "A" and might actually be as special as they've been saying all these years.
12) Datblygu, "Ugain i Un" (Twenty to One)
The other thing about "Mansize Rooster" is that it's utterly meaningless. "Ugain i Un", on the other hand...
Oh ie, ras ceffylau
O'n i'n ugain i un
Des i allan o'r pellter
Ac eneill e ar y llun
...
Roedd fy enw ar dafod
Sylwebydd unwaith
Ond nawr rwy'i yna efo'r cig
Mewn archfarchnad yn Ffrainc
(Oh yes, a horse race
I was twenty-to-one
I came out of the distance
And won it on the photo
...
My name was on the lips
Of a commentator once upon a time
But now I'm there with the meat
In a supermarket in France)
Barça don't seem too happy about our impudence. They're hunting us down now - it's their football and they're not letting us play with it.
I'm not a bad player, really. Actually, the fact that I'm even playing on a team in the same division as Barcelona means I'm in the 99th percentile of footballers. I played against some of these guys at youth level and held my own. I've worked hard and looked after myself. I've been a good colleague. I could turn up at your rec league five-a-side game and humiliate you, were I of a mood (which I probably wouldn't be). I make a very nice living and can comfortably provide for my young family, both immediately and in the long term. People recognise me in the street and say "good luck on Sunday." But my immortality will only be the shadow of others'. My grandkids will throw my Division 2 winner's medal to one side to get a glimpse at the Xavi jersey I intend to get from him after the game tonight. My grandkids will think I'd bought it at the Barça megastore, until I tell them the story of the day I was in the general vicinty of Xavi and Messi.
13) The Beatles, "Hey Bulldog"
Barça have all their subs on now, and yet they still score a cracker of a goal. About fifty passes in a row or something. No one will remember it because you can go on YouTube and see a hundred late-match Barça goals just like it.
14) Phil Collins, "Against All Odds (Take a Look at Me Now)"
[Both author and editor have agreed for the benefit of society to not embed the above song here.]
To be honest, even if we had won tonight, we'd probably still have been nothing more than a prologue to history: lovable outsiders, the asthmatic orphan who made it through the first audition on American Idol while him with the teeth goes on to win the final. We would have celebrated like we'd one the league, and gone into the next game against the team in the relegation zone in far too cocky a manner and taken a sobering defeat. This I know. And yet.
FULL-TIME
15) Half Man Half Biscuit, "Depressed Beyond Tablets"
Not because of the lyric's all-pervading gloom ("I'm searching out for exits but I'm doubting if there ever was an entrance in the first place" ... "If I was in CSNY, I'd be Stephen Stills"). It's no more depressing than "Against All Odds," anyway. No: it's because the line "The results of my lifetime are a string of nil-nils" gives us something to aim for.
[Fredorrarci is a writer based in Ireland. He considers sport in almost every of its beautiful forms at Sport Is a TV Show. To read more by Fredorrarci, check out his profile.]
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