Leave the Tape Running - October Artist Showcase

Jarveyboy

UK Conversational Rap, Psychological Trip-Hop, Haunted Cassette

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[Intro]

Mum labelled everything.

Christmas lights.
Extension leads.
Receipts she hadn't needed since 2003.
So of course the tape had a label.

Sunday.
Kitchen.
Nothing else.
I nearly threw it out.

Funny, isn't it?
Thirty years of somebody's life
and by four in the afternoon
you're deciding what fits in the car.

There was an old cassette player
under the telephone table.
Still had batteries in it.
Of course it did.
Mum.

At first, I laughed.
There I was.
Seven years old,
murdering Three Blind Mice
on that horrible little piano.

Mum washing something at the sink.
Me asking for biscuits.
Her saying no.
Me asking again.
Some things survive remarkably well.
I kept packing.

Plates into newspaper.
Photographs into boxes.

Keep.
Charity.
Bin.
Then I heard it.
My voice.
Not seven-year-old me.
Me.
Now.
Very quietly,
underneath Mum laughing.

I couldn't make out the first bit.
So I wound it back.
Played it again.
"...don't open the cupboard."
I looked at the cupboard.
Obviously.
Because apparently that's what we do.

Someone tells you not to look
and suddenly the entire universe
is a cupboard.
I told myself it was interference.

Old tape.
Old machine.
Someone's radio bleeding through.
There are explanations for things.
There are always explanations for things.
Until there aren't.

Because then the little girl stopped playing.
Seven-year-old me.
Stopped.
And Mum said,
"What is it, love?"
The little girl whispered,
"There's a lady in the kitchen."
Mum laughed.
There wasn't.
I remember that kitchen.
There was nobody there.
Then Mum asked,
"Where?"
And seven-year-old me said,
"She's standing where you're standing."

I didn't move.
Couldn't.
Because thirty years later,
I was standing
exactly there.

Then the tape crackled.
And underneath my mother's voice,
I heard myself again.
Closer this time.
"Leave the tape running."

So I did.

Five minutes, ten, twenty.
Nothing but washing-up, toy piano, Mum humming,
me complaining about biscuits.

Ordinary Sunday, ordinary kitchen,
ordinary life preserved on magnetic tape
like none of us had the decency to disappear.

Then—
my phone rang.
It was my number.
I didn't answer.
The cassette did.

"Hello?"

2226/7500

[Intro] Mum labelled everything. Christmas lights. Extension leads. Receipts she hadn't needed since 2003. So of course the tape had a label. Sunday. Kitchen. Nothing else. I nearly threw it out. Funny, isn't it? Thirty years of somebody's life and by four in the afternoon you're deciding what fits in the car. There was an old cassette player under the telephone table. Still had batteries in it. Of course it did. Mum. At first, I laughed. There I was. Seven years old, murdering Three Blind Mice on that horrible little piano. Mum washing something at the sink. Me asking for biscuits. Her saying no. Me asking again. Some things survive remarkably well. I kept packing. Plates into newspaper. Photographs into boxes. Keep. Charity. Bin. Then I heard it. My voice. Not seven-year-old me. Me. Now. Very quietly, underneath Mum laughing. I couldn't make out the first bit. So I wound it back. Played it again. "...don't open the cupboard." I looked at the cupboard. Obviously. Because apparently that's what we do. Someone tells you not to look and suddenly the entire universe is a cupboard. I told myself it was interference. Old tape. Old machine. Someone's radio bleeding through. There are explanations for things. There are always explanations for things. Until there aren't. Because then the little girl stopped playing. Seven-year-old me. Stopped. And Mum said, "What is it, love?" The little girl whispered, "There's a lady in the kitchen." Mum laughed. There wasn't. I remember that kitchen. There was nobody there. Then Mum asked, "Where?" And seven-year-old me said, "She's standing where you're standing." I didn't move. Couldn't. Because thirty years later, I was standing exactly there. Then the tape crackled. And underneath my mother's voice, I heard myself again. Closer this time. "Leave the tape running." So I did. Five minutes, ten, twenty. Nothing but washing-up, toy piano, Mum humming, me complaining about biscuits. Ordinary Sunday, ordinary kitchen, ordinary life preserved on magnetic tape like none of us had the decency to disappear. Then— my phone rang. It was my number. I didn't answer. The cassette did. "Hello?" Lyrics copyright 9/2026 Steve Jarvis All rights reserved

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