when you're sad and feeling blue
last week, there went neil hannon's guitar solo. it went up to the flight path of gatwick airport, and down and around the wasp on the guitar tuner device.
dancing fever was particularly evident, as were clapping hands like motherfuckers. despite the besuited rock and roll gestures, the old–fashionedness of the edwardian house shone through, as did the old–timey songsmithery, which remains incomplete without gestures:
afterwards, i withdrew from the roamers and predators of the streets to hibernate in bedrooms above, composing songs of love desperately and happily
over the rambler
over the lawyer
over the dancer
over the voyeur