Oh, the small pleasures of the big city.
The longest day, not endless now I am older, but still long enough. That deep blue fade, still present after the pubs have closed. And the ride to and from some small moments of musical beauty, in a basement, while the vuvuzelas scream overhead, for Greece and Argentina.
Down below we watch as some souls get internal, with greater or lesser success. For queen and country? Hardly. No, this one’s for me, it’s about a love I found and lost and found, it’s about how I fell out of love with a whole town. It’s about something personal but also universal.
It’s about Blue Rose Code singing Whitechapel, a song about my city that touches me; it’s about the spindly intensity of Beth Hirsch singing the songs she wrote with Air, the songs that haunt her, the songs she will never transcend, the songs she loves and hates, the songs that made her, the songs she is so much better than.
And upstairs the match bundles to it’s conclusion and the salarymen sink more pints than they oughta on a Tuesday night, the wife won’t like it but the hangover will help them haze through the midweek gloom.
And after all that, the ride home, the azure glow still there, shining over the scrapers, the moon between the towers of the power station, the river in full flow, the traffic streaming past the peace camp at Westminster, the lights on Chelsea bridge, all to the resonating echo of those lovely songs. Always the songs. So many songs.