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.
If you can mark your steps in the grooves of your favourite records – and we can, of course – then there will always be those songs that guide you in your leaps of faith until you land, safe and sure footed, on the other side.
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.
One singer is 77 years old. Greying curly hair. One singer is in his early 20s. Flowing ginger locks. Both are sitting at a keyboard, backed by a four piece band.
This love felt frightening. This love felt dangerous, even. And gambling everything for it – including my own life – felt reckless. But still.
We hit the road. I press play on the album Baby Caught The Bus by Clairy Browne and the Bangin' Rackettes. I lose count of how many times I replay Love Letter.
For the first time in years, after hearing a song for the first time I had to listen to it again, and again, and yet again.
As I pulled up to the Astor cinema and circled around for a park the band’s Everyday Formula reverberated through the tinny stereo system: My whole world's cheap and phony/ Dear hearts get lost and lonely/ I'll get what's coming to me soon.
About five minutes into the program I heard a slither of music that sent a shiver up my body. It sounded perfect. It touched a nerve of sadness. And also gave rise to joy.