In the space of thirty seconds I’ve gone from being bored to horny to a tragic figure whose only true love is dead.
If we had hours rather than minutes, we would listen to music through the tinny TV speakers, tucked up together under blankets on the mattress, arguing over the best of British.
The afternoon sun came through the west facing window as I tinkered on some project and the radio was glued to Radio National. The radio has served me well after being rescued from a dumpster.
Here at Stereo Stories we celebrate Fathers' Day not with gifts of angle grinders and barbecues and golf balls but with stories, a dozen in all.
Hey Little Girl does not remind me of anybody in particular. But it reminds me of Madrid. It’s what I heard at that moment, when I needed to hear something just like it, when I was between jobs and almost broke.
As soon as the credits rose I would stalk back to the car and play Low on my way home, through the city and immigrant ghettoes, past still clattering factories and silent housing estates, then back onto the dark of the fen to park at a small humpback bridge just outside my village.
I shed a few tears, wiped them away, and lost myself in the music. Chester Bennington is gone, but his legacy will live on through his music.
In the blue cloudless sky something caught my eye. At a really high altitude was something - metallic silver. It was glinting in the morning sun and moving very slowly.
Wichita Lineman means a lot to me. I used to play it for my beloved when we first met: I was trying to impress her with my guitar skills because she didn't seem too impressed by my conversation, my sexual prowess, or my recipe for spicy peanut satay sauce. A tough one to break.
I think of my past snakes, all those blue eyes and banjos over the years, the late night knocks and needs that kept my heart shielded and my eyes always on the door.