Sometimes travel includes gigs, when the planets align and you and your current crush (Ron Sexsmith) perhaps are in London at the same time. Or when Bob Dylan and Paul Simon do a show in an amphitheatre outside of Boston.
It was still plaintive and summery. It was by another St Kilda institution. A guy I first saw play at Deakin in the early 1980s. I tracked it down to a new double album of Christmas songs.
If it wasn’t for the pandemic … I wouldn’t have started swimming in the sea at the ungodly hour of 6.30am. And making wonderful new friends in the process.
After cassettes lost favour I bought Jonathan on CD. And Jonathan on vinyl. In Spanish, Italian, French and English.
I was still home reading Nina Simone.
The sweaty band tear up the New Jersey night, Clarence in all white and a sleeveless vest. The song lights a fire within.
What the world needs now is more of this. More sultry men steaming up your computer screen as you scratch out a living in this Covid-19 world.
The idea of traipsing across London at night on my own was frankly daunting.
Dr G listens as Bruce purrs the first track of Western Stars, the album that came out just a few weeks ago. “This would be perfect for someone learning English!”
Night shifts summer’s leaves/Date palms rock in breeze/Crescent bay shimmers