Back for one month; ambling in a bubble.
That’s what it amounts to.
The ferry with seagulls and a day at a receding glacier in Jasper.
It’s nothing on Howrah and ghat side chai; but context, context.
Four concerts have proved to accumlate my homeland concert-going endeavours as a series in disposable interest.
The one night import of Azeda Booth's share parts Women at The Brickyard led me to flee with loathsome energy. The trip to Toffee-no to see Lady(lovely)hawk left me regergitating remarkably well-shaped kalamata olives from an overpriced mediterranean salad into the Legion toilet. But before, before:
Yes, that's Tears for Fears on the drumset. I verified with Duffy.
Indeed we drove on the Trans Canada to see the Cons of Canada play a song called "Trans Canada" off an album with a propellar plane sporting the name Kensington.
Kensington is a proper noun noted as the cherry of Calgary’s commerical and residential pockets; as well as some place in London. This draws to mind how Delhi’s infamous Connaught Place has ressurrected its heading in the name of my friend’s apartment in Vancouver as well as the strip mall that marks the township of Jasper National Park.
Quite simply; hats off to the British.
The Old City Records show has been my sole sterling concerto.
I can't stop listening to The Queen Is Dead and Rank. Nine months in Asia and I’ve become spiritually jaded enough to be taken by the works of Morissey when he was still a blooming cunt.
Life boats available for everyone; reserve today.
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The people cry for more
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