I wrote this over the bank holiday, before the rain came a pouring down, before being wrapped in this felt greyness… like a soaked Beuys, something best conjured by Abwassermusik smudginess… the music shifting with the weather…
but on Monday there was this last song on the A side of Donovan’s Fairytale that was hitting me just as the sun was breaking out…
the voice was a perfect hush of drug-scope clusters… curling words falling into each other’s lap… bound across sparkling guitar work, leaving you slightly out of breathe. A crisp stream of pure Appalachian poetry, brazen in a dance of insecty baubles… an all too brief masterpiece that seemed to capture our fleeting Summers perfectly – Pick the flower and it will wilt…
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