There's a recording of James playing The Old Grey Whistle Test from back when most of the band had hair. Tim Booth is wearing an amazingly '80s jumper and singing his heart out and, all in all, it's a good video. He's not moving as much as I'm used to him doing, but nevertheless, I find it very enjoyable.
That was 30 years ago. Times have moved on and, somehow, Tim Booth got hot.
Tim Booth isn't really supposed to be sexy. He's in his 50s now and writing very confusing happy lyrics about people dying. He still has an amazing singing voice, even if it does sound a little strained at points. But he is, at the end of the day, getting old and shouldn't have the confusing sexual mystique that he appears to command. And I'm not talking about the massive erection he appears to have on one of the live album covers.
Booth's dancing has changed over the years, from his curly-mopped marionette with broken strings to the strange staccato jumpiness to what he's doing now, which is an odd, but very fluid, sort of snake-like dance with prominent use of his arms and hips. It's slightly mesmerising by its absurdity, and that's what keeps Tim Booth sexual (well, that and his continuous ruminations on the subject in his solo stuff) - he knows how to move his body, and despite his continuous assurances that he's not enjoying himself very much, he has audiences eating out of his hand.
I wonder how one is supposed to channel that.
I know I'm not old, but I'm feeling it. I can't dance like Tim Booth (although, so help me, I try) or swing my hips without them cracking. I can't even lie down without a groan and a wheeze. Sex is great but takes a superhuman effort, even more so with masturbation (although that also feels great). While Mr Booth takes power naps before gigs (so I hear), I take naps because I'm out of power.
Tim Booth's neighbour also probably doesn't blast really loud music through his wall in the small hours, which may explain more than it should about my current energy levels.
But this is all physical. On the inside, I'm overflowing with it, fizz-popping like a sherbet volcano with ideas, thoughts and intrusive fantasies. My brain is doing the serpentine dance avec hips for me and, although I may not be able to lose myself in the motions like I used to, I've been sleeping on the Tube recently (due to neighbour-related shenanigans above mentioned), and it's in those moments - when my brain's on standby - that I feel the sexiness stirring; buried deep, perhaps, but still alive somehwere there, and purring.
I may not be able to bring the sexy like Tim Booth. But it's nice to know it's there.
And I intend to share it.