Beirut, The Flying Club Cup

The Flying Club Cup
Ba Da Bing

I’ll level with you: I’m afraid of dying. I guess that’s not really newsworthy, because I suppose we’re all afraid. But why? Why are we so scared? Is it because we don’t know what will happen? Is it the same reason we’re afraid of dark basements and murky lake depths? Just because we simply do not know what is down there, what is in that muck, what happens when our eyes close that one last time? It’s just mute fear of unknowns, and when you parse that inarticulable fear into its most basic components you get what? Nothing. That’s right—we’re all afraid of a big bunch of nothing.

I will do this: Put on a Beirut album and close my eyes. I will wander through labyrinthine and shadowy streets, into Parisian cafes and Turkish opium dens. I will accuse a man of cheating at backgammon and we will fight to the death with long curving knives. If I die, I die. But if not, I will grab a chorus girl by her waist and yell for the band to play louder and faster. And we will dance like the night will never end.

Beirut is lovely. Accordion, violin, mandolin, and a blue haze of smoke. —Andreas Trolf