TONIGHT WILL BE FINE by LEONARD COHEN. Story by Luke Davies.
Listening to most music has been so much harder for me since the stroke and I had not been keen on revisiting older recordings and demos of ideas stashed away on various hard drives.
Listening to most music has been so much harder for me since the stroke and I had not been keen on revisiting older recordings and demos of ideas stashed away on various hard drives.
Each night of our five -night derailment, when the hot sun went down, weād go and sit on the still-warm tracks with a crazed old railway fettler who had befriended us.
We dedicated our performances of Silver Moon in 2022 to musicians and writers who had died in the peak years of Covid, 2020 and 2021.
Mum was fiddling with the dial, but the glitchy radio was not getting her urgencyāpure static.
Dad stands at the bowser. I sit in the passenger seat. The thrum of petrol is like a bassline.
Cars may come and go but some you never forget.
As the sun set, a man took a seat at a truncated keyboard. A 60-key piano that barely fitted in the space, jammed between the door and a window. With minimal fanfare he played for the few of us there.
It reminded her of when the conductor moves to the podium and, with a couple of taps, signals the dawn of the main event.
Mary Pomfret writes a lyrical response to the song Fairytale Of New York in the wake of the death of Shane McGowan.
Music is always so much more than just music. Itās quite simply everything.