KRIS
Tungsten patio lights criss-crossed in strands above my head, Xs and slashes against the white retractable canvas roof. I looked around and saw only money with people attached. I’d got used to it over the last five years, the conceits: silky leather jackets, eye-catching Persol sunglasses, Louis Vuitton handbags; their smartphones, their BMW and Maserati fobs left conspicuously on their tables; striae of affluence. A bizarro emulation of the polluted carcass of rock ’n’ roll: rich and black (but white), and sleek, and tanned and tired, day-drunk, bloated. I felt self-conscious in my mirrored sunglasses, guilt by association, reminded of the time Red generously invited me to join him at a televised awards show. This was almost a decade ago. I wasn’t there for any other reason than to
