With the murmurings of chatter from other tables around us, our own conversation flowed smoothly, a stream without pebbles to impede the course.
This song goes off like a nail bomb. It carries, not an earworm, but an ear leech, that latches on and will not be silenced.
Slowly, I begin to understand. He thinks Australia is an army camp in South Vietnam. He thinks that’s where I’m from. And that’s when he starts screaming. And by screaming, I mean, screaming – in-fear-of-his-life screaming.
I wish I could tell you that it was our differences that eventually tore us apart. Her love of big hair and the power ballad, my love of The Residents and holding my mohawk in place with airplane glue.
I couldn't escape the crush (in both senses of the word) the first time I heard it. I was dumped, pulled under and dragged disoriented across the sandy sediment of my adolescent existence. See My Baby Jive was excoriating.
Tired. Burnt out. I want out. I don’t want to be here. I need something new. What’s next? No solid plans. Wing it. Improvise. Until the money runs out. Or until I get bored doing nothing.
After breaking up and getting back together 152 times, I finally found an exit strategy that would stick. My Happiness was awaiting me – I just had to meet it halfway.
My mind drifts away with the sublime guitars and complementary vocals. The song unfolds gradually but confidently, like the highway I’m driving on...past Tutye, Boinka, Linga, Underbool...
This isn’t a song for Grafton, or Australia, it’s a song for the human condition. The sublime execution is what sets it apart.
Iryna Byelyayeva ponders which Fleetwood Mac song will be the soundtrack, or the full stop, of a faltering relationship.