The song, like him, is drenched in space. The unhurried chords set the scene perfectly. Space.
It was, yes, a Jim fanatic who led me to visit the grave. We had parted ways in volatile fashion before my trip. He’d expressed a lifelong desire to visit Jim’s grave. I wasn’t sure whether a casual photo of it would be a peace offering, or a taunt. I was, truth be told, quite fine either way.
I’d never seen the Eagles play at the G and my pulse was racing.
D.R James riffs on jazz, bass solos, and too much audience chit-chat.
Every summer he drove across the country in a clapped-out vehicle to see us kids, but he always went back. Back to where he had a stool at the bar and a nickname he loved: the Professor.
The odometer on our Wordpress dashboard quietly ticked over to 800 stories last week.
Tickets are now available for our show at Tempo Rubato in Brunswick on Saturday evening 30 November.
References to places in Belfast also appear in the lyrics, Hyndford St, Cypress Avenue. Locations around Northern Ireland, Newtownards, Comber, Coney Island. Van was nailing it for me. I knew the places he was weaving into his lyrics. Belfast was becoming famous through his songs.
Believing herself unloved and unlovable had splintered her heart. Her desperate life’s search was to find someone to piece it back together.
We return to the Queenscliffe Literary Festival on the Bellarine peninsula on Saturday evening, 26 October.