LANDSLIDE by THE (DIXIE) CHICKS. Story by Janet Brown.
Thatās it. Thatās the bit in the song. The gulp catches my breath. Staring out the windscreen and emotion spills from me and fogs the glass.
Thatās it. Thatās the bit in the song. The gulp catches my breath. Staring out the windscreen and emotion spills from me and fogs the glass.
Later, itās six of us at a workmateās one-room apartment, watching videos, drinking, talking. He and I sit on the bed, a purring cat between us. Kittyās tail flicks against my thighs as he strokes one end, I stroke the other, our hands sometimes touching: poor kitty a conduit for the swollen energy between us.
Romantic glances were exchanged, embarrassing dance moves produced, high notes aimed for but never hit.
My sole ambition in life is to find out what has happened to John Fogerty.Ā
Harvest Moon is almost poetic and otherworldly in its lyrics and melody. But it got me thinking about that guy who dumped me when I was 14.
At The Palais Theatre, most of the audience of 3000 would have known Your Bright Baby Blues. At The Railway Hotel, probably only two brothers.
Sometimes itās only when you see a girl for the second or third time that you realise how beautiful she is. A song is a bit like that.
Itās not a mistake to transpose your own experiences onto a song (or a poem or a novel or a paintingā¦). Itās inevitable. Itās part of art. But it can be a trap if youāre not careful.
Mark Schier California, 1990 We sat on the train and plugged into our portable cassette players with those 1990s chunky headphones. I'm not sure what my wife listened to, but for me there was only one choice.
Kahli Scott Brisbane, Australia and London, UK; April 2016 Thereās been a shadow over me that doesnāt seem to lift when Londonās grey skies do. And Randy Meisnerās voice keeps popping into my head.