DECEMBER 1963 (OH WHAT A NIGHT!) by FRANKIE VALLI & THE FOUR SEASONS. Poem by Kristin Henry
Music is a fast ride./With the first rolls/of that old drum intro/I was snared.
Music is a fast ride./With the first rolls/of that old drum intro/I was snared.
Unhinged, unwieldy, (apparently) uncoordinated and maybe even unlistenable. Despite or because of this, I pressed on. I'd read somewhere that this was supposed to be An Important Album.
The opening bars of Tucker’s Daughter will forever be associated with the interminable wait during school dancing lessons of holding the clammy hands of a socially inept male counterpart.
From the first time I heard Five Feet High And Rising I could relate to it, not that where we lived in the lower Blue Mountains was likely to get flooded. It just somehow touched me.
The whole song was a journey spanning a month, two continents and several thousand kilometres.
The hall lights dimmed but she lit up. She was raw, uncut and with nothing to lose. I have never seen a person unleash themselves so fully and oblivious to social norms
The vines twisted around the pergola/in my grandmother’s backyard/were gnarled and old
Past the age of 30 everyone has collected at least one shameful secret. From international war crimes to embarrassing crushes, we all have things we’d rather keep hidden. But hiding can be tiresome.
When we tire of climbing and jumping, we let the current drift us back to our towels and trannies, still keeping an eye out for snakes swimming in the river; supposedly they can’t strike in water, but we don’t want to test the theory.
In a car with my first lover/our relationship fraught, almost over./Song on the radio.