It was, for the moment, their song. They liked it because they’d discovered it, because it wasn’t whatever the rest of their classmates were tuning in to. Because it wasn’t U2. ‘Wo-ah, we’re halfway there!’ The lyrics echoed their own desperate fixation on the future.
There’s something fascinating about Sting's rough voice. It lends itself into the melancholy of Dowland’s Elizabethan music in a way that is truly unique.
Eventually though the time will come for you to get thirsty on a random night, head toward the fridge, reach for the orange juice bottle and get hit by an epiphany.
I’m driving my son to his mate’s house and he’s flicking through stations on the car radio, trying to find a decent pop song to listen to - something that doesn’t sound like it was composed using sampled microwave keypad beeps. Then he’s accidentally flicked onto a golden oldies station. He’s keen to flick off, but I tell him to wait a sec.
In the space of thirty seconds I’ve gone from being bored to horny to a tragic figure whose only true love is dead.
Folder of up-to-date stories, with correct cues and prompts? Yes. Postcards? Yes. Music stands? Yes. Stage banner? Yes. Plastic blue case? Yes.
For a short time my astonishment about September 11 diluted my compassion. And I guess I wasn’t alone in my astonishment in those first few hours, days and months following the killing of so many people in a country where no one is supposed to die.
If we had hours rather than minutes, we would listen to music through the tinny TV speakers, tucked up together under blankets on the mattress, arguing over the best of British.
Our Albury concert on Saturday 16 September is just about sold out, with only 18 tickets, of 110, available as of Monday afternoon, 4 September.
The afternoon sun came through the west facing window as I tinkered on some project and the radio was glued to Radio National. The radio has served me well after being rescued from a dumpster.