The air in the room hung thick with the smell of fresh paint, a blank canvas mirroring the uncertain future of young-Toby. Brush in hand, he was transforming the landlord’s drab walls, a free service in exchange for a roof over his head. From across the hall, a borrowed radio filled the silence, its tunes weaving into the rhythm of his strokes. It was the summer of 1990, and the soundtrack to his humble renovation was inescapable: Sinead O’Connor’s haunting rendition of ‘Nothing Compares 2u’.
The song, a Prince composition, was more than just a chart-topper; it was an anthem of raw emotion, its melancholic melody and O’Connor’s powerful vocals resonating deeply with the zeitgeist. As Toby layered coats of paint onto the walls, ‘Nothing Compares 2U’ climbed the charts, its ascent mirroring his own quiet struggle and solitary existence in bedsit land. Kylie Minogue’s pop sheen and the boyband energy of New Kids on the Block were relegated to lower spots as the airwaves pulsed with a different kind of energy – something real, something raw, something that spoke to a deeper yearning. The top 10 was a vibrant mix, from Mantronix’s infectious beats to Jimmy Somerville’s soulful cover, yet it was ‘Nothing Compares 2U’ that dominated, its stark vulnerability cutting through the noise.
The room, initially deceptive in its size, demanded more paint, more time. The day stretched, each brushstroke a meditation against the backdrop of the song. Life was pared down to essentials: cheap rent, cheaper food. This bedsit was a world in miniature, a space for introspection and survival. In a moment of stark clarity, Toby captured the essence of his frugal existence in blue biro, later crossed out in pencil, a fleeting note on the economics of survival:
The tin of mushroom soup cost 20p.
A bargain don’t you think? I poured it out,
into the pan, then stirred it while it cooked,
then ate it from the pan. I have no bowl,
I have to eat things from the pan.
The spoon I used to eat the above soup
I had inherited the previous day
from someone whom I had not even met.
The soup was dullish grey, as one expects
one’s mushroom soup to be. It’s texture not
unlike the bumpy wallpaper with which
this room I live in has been papered. Not
that I’ve ever eaten wallpaper,
ants, yes, earth maybe, wallpaper never.
The mundane details of a 20p soup meal, eaten directly from the pan with a borrowed spoon, painted a vivid picture of his circumstances. The soup, grey and textured like the room’s wallpaper, became a metaphor for the stark reality of his bedsit life, a life soundtracked by the poignant lyrics of ‘Nothing Compares 2U’. In that small room, with that song on repeat, young-Toby wasn’t just painting walls; he was living a moment in time, a moment forever etched with the unforgettable melody of a song that truly stood alone.
