I’m watching Dad working on the huge driftwood table he’s been making out of wood that he’s found and dragged home from the beach.
My father's smirk also comes from the fact it's one of the few Neil Young songs I've introduced to him.
From the opening lines of this debut single you know that Oliver Northam knows how to tell a story.
He is a Kylie tragic, and the CD that’s playing in the car is a compilation.
It’s a raucous, shambolic, ranting wreck of a song, which ends with a well-oiled Leonard chanting.
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!”
I don’t buy the album after the gig at the merch desk because I’m still holding onto the memory of hearing Chasing Van, of savouring it, of treasuring it. I don’t want to make a commercial transaction. Yet.
Carpenter became a recluse: first painting houses, then studying to become a Buddhist monk. He drifted between cities during those lost years, buffeted by unknown storms.
As fitting as it was to imagine Mrs Hart perched atop a fleecy cloud, my sympathies were firmly with her howling, motherless child.
After that moment where life seemed beautiful, my father had a visit from the sherriff’s department and ended up serving a year in county for elder abuse (though forgery and theft charges were dropped in the plea deal).