ITALIAN LULLABY by CONNIE FRANCIS. Story by Lucia Nardo.
The sweet, pure voice of Connie Francis singing Italian Lullaby hurtled me back to an encounter in a café that spoke to me tenderly of parenthood.
The sweet, pure voice of Connie Francis singing Italian Lullaby hurtled me back to an encounter in a café that spoke to me tenderly of parenthood.
Michael Leach recalls a Superjesus/Baby Animals gig.
Cars may come and go but some you never forget.
It was a time of riding on a barrel of a song and being saved by a fisherman called Friedrich Nietzsche and his novel Thus Spoke Zarathustra.
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 was just after 9 a.m., a week out from Christmas. My best friend and I were on our weekly record hunt.
In a world of neon signs and endless advertising angles this was the most uplifting piece of graffiti I've read in a long time.
It reminded her of when the conductor moves to the podium and, with a couple of taps, signals the dawn of the main event.
The boys dare each other to read out loud the titles of the X-rated movies showing down the road, some claiming to have been snuck in there by mysterious older mates.
Mary Pomfret writes a lyrical response to the song Fairytale Of New York in the wake of the death of Shane McGowan.