@granitecyclist/">@
@granitecyclist, 'Over' is definitely one of my all-time favorites.
But I have to admit, I haven't even come close to covering his entire discography yet. He’s hyper-productive, so there’s just so much material that you kind of have to pick a specific sequence to dive in, even though most of what he’s put out is excellent. I’m really into those early solo albums that still carry that Van der Graaf spirit—especially 'Chameleon in the Shadows of the Night'—but 'Fools Mate' is also great because of those beautiful shared moments between Fripp and Peter Hammill. + + + It’s honestly cool to see him still churning out such high-quality albums after all these years, and performing these lovely, intimate shows. I’d love to catch him live, just once, if the opportunity pops up soon...
@Casey Flores/">@
@Casey Flores, I gave it a listen and I really like it. Though, if I'm being honest, the second song mentioned is way better lyrically than it is musically. I was expecting a bit more energy in the delivery, not so lazy, although I guess that might be intentional. But 'New Birds' is just beautiful in every sense. 'First Big Weekend,' which Ashley Grant66 linked, is interesting too.
For some reason, those three songs together really reminded me of Tindersticks. Stuart A. Staples is one of my favorite songwriters; his voice is something I can listen to anytime, regardless of whatever musical landscape he's working in. And man, does he have a massive repertoire—everything from Tindersticks and solo stuff to all those soundtracks for director Claire Denis... His lyrics are always so sensitive, tactile, and raw—you can practically feel the emotions—often standing in sharp contrast to the music holding them together.
'New Birds' actually reminded me of a younger phase and a track from 'The Something Rain,' though it’s David Boulter singing on that one instead of Stuart. Still, the lyrics are incredibly clever, cinematic, and unpredictable. It felt like a fitting, cheeky provocation for a sleepy Friday afternoon:
'Chocolate'
It had been the perfect Friday afternoon,
the job was almost done.
The house we were decorating was owned by a little old man,
always in the same three-piece suit he'd probably had since he left the service.
He seemed to be forever on his way to the post office,
carrying brown paper and string-wrapped parcels under his arm.
He'd bring us out china cups of cheap coffee and plates of custard cream biscuits.
The house had belonged to his parents, who both passed away within weeks of each other a few years back.
They were the only people he had ever lived with; this was the only house he had ever known.
I wondered what would happen to the house once he's gone.
It was a short walk to my studio apartment, which used to be a house similar to the old man's but was now split into a bunch of single rooms.
It also used to have a great garden like his, but now it's taken over by a one-story modern block housing a dentist and a podiatrist.
In my room was an electric stove, which I only used in the winter to keep warm,
next to that was a sink with a glass shelf above it, holding a toothbrush and a pack of Marlboros.
There was a table with a chair in one corner, a single bed in the other, and maybe four square feet of space in the middle.
There was a wooden drawer under the bed with most of my clothes, and the rest was tossed over the back of the chair.
I had a record player on a table with boxes of vinyl underneath.
The bathroom for the first and second floors was directly opposite my room,
The shower had this water meter that required two quarters, and you’d have to kill half an hour just waiting for the water to get warm. Plus, you had to keep an eye on the door so some jerk wouldn't sneak in and steal your bath.
There was one bathroom upstairs and one outside, but nobody really used the outdoor one anymore, so that's basically where the local hookers would take their clients for a quick session.
I tried to spend as little time in my room as possible; my skin still felt warm and soft from the shower as I headed into town.
By 6:30, I was already perched on my usual stool at my neighborhood pub. The usual crowd of about twelve regulars was there, just chilling before the post-8:00 rush hits. Once it gets busy, everyone crowds around the tiny bar and the pool tables. The house rule for pool is simple: winner stays on. You write your name on the chalkboard and wait. The challenger pays for the game, so if you're actually good, you can play all night. Well, tonight, I was killing it.
She strolled into the pool room just as I sank the black ball. She was next on the list, so she leaned down toward the table slot and dropped in some coins.
I was used to seeing her surrounded by that burgundy flocked wallpaper and red velvet seating at the Sunday night lounge around the corner, but she looked different standing here in the pool room. She looked good. And she was looking right at me.
I finished the game as fast as I could without looking like a total loser and moved toward her.
"Want a drink?" she asked. "I'll grab them. What are you having?" I asked. "Whatever you're having," she said.
The best part about being a regular when the bars start getting rowdy is that all you need is a raised eyebrow and a couple of nods. Two bottles of Budweiser were practically tossed over people's heads straight to our table. We did the whole "pool room dance" for a bit, dodging elbows and cue sticks with a few "excuse me's" until we decided to head out.
It was way too early for the club, so we ducked around the corner to that Sunday night lounge. Even on a Friday, it was pretty packed with couples and college kids. It has a reputation as a gay bar, which is probably why the students hang out there—they feel safe.
She was my absolute dream. We sipped on Pernod and Coke, talking about John Barry and old Ford Mustangs (she was a fan of the classic models). We debated the essentials: hair gel or Brylcream? I went with the Brylcream.
She even admitted *On Her Majesty's Secret Service* is the best Bond flick, provided you look at it as a complete movie and don't get weirdly hung up on George Lazenby.
She smoked Silk Cuts, didn't mind Marlboros, but we both had a soft spot for Old Port cigars.
We eventually migrated down to the club. We headed upstairs for some onion bhajis near the quiet bar by the dance floor.
We decided to bail early. You don't want to be there when the lights come on; it ruins everything. You'd never want to sit in a place like that again. We shuffled toward the exit in this depressing sort of way, but honestly, it was good to get out while the place still felt like a warm, smoky black hole full of possibilities.
She lives over by the river on the other side of town. Waiting for a cab was a nightmare, as usual, right next to that late-night greasy spoon—worst fries you'll ever eat, but it's packed at this hour. People fighting outside, people puking... you name it. We finally jumped in a taxi, and suddenly, nothing else mattered but us.
Back at her place—a studio apartment in a building similar to mine—she’d clearly put some work into it. She’d painted three walls, put up some retro fifties star wallpaper, a huge Bowie poster, and some nice curtains. It would have been easy for me to upgrade my basic, beige woodchip studio. I mean, it's my job. She had a few lamps scattered around and some candles lit. She made us actual hot chocolate, not that instant garbage you get from a vending machine. She even had some Fox's biscuits and a small bottle of Cointreau. It was the perfect end to the day. Between the taste of chocolate, cigarettes, and orange liqueur, everything felt even better. I undid her tartan miniskirt, pulled off her black wool tights, and my lips moved up her legs... Wait, what the hell? I had a massive, hard dick poking me in the eye. "Shit! You're a guy!" I thought. I felt like jumping out the window or just screaming. I couldn't move...
She... he... hadn't changed one bit... My head was pounding, and I just felt this desperate urge to act, to say something...
He was holding onto me, just breaking down... "You had to have known, how could you keep this from me?" and "I love you, I'll be whatever you need..." Those eyes were still stunning—deep brown—and his lips still had that rich, warm color.
"Dammit!" I blurted out, "I was never really into breasts, anyway..."
+
Anyway, let me get back to those broken albums and songs...
Here's one of my favorites, straight from Štulić's heart and soul:
'Another Night In'
