I have a lot of favourite songs. Some songs are my favourite because they remind me of certain times, places, and people. Others are my favourites because, over time, they’ve sunk under my skin and revealed themselves to be glittering caverns of unfathomable wonder.
Some songs, though, are my favourite songs because, the first time I heard them, I was stunned. Jaw hitting the floor, shaking my head in awe, stunned. Floored, like Brian Wilson, who claims that the first time he heard Be My Baby by The Ronettes, he fell over.
Some songs tend to lose their lustre after a few thousand listens. Not these. For me, they were incredible on the first listen, and they remain favourites because they have never lost their power to stun.
God, but this week’s been depressing.
The fledgling summer has died. All the Beach Boys, High Llamas, Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci and Grateful Dead is already looking quite silly and out of place on my MP3 player.
This apocalyptic weather is, of course, a portent of doom. The shit-eating moronic ukip drones have gloated so hard at their statistically-underwhelming “victory” that the heavens have opened. A vengeful god in which I certainly no longer believe is expressing his displeasure at our apathetic nation.
You can almost hear him: “Oh, so you’re willing to invite buggery by evil through your apathy, are you? Then surely you won’t mind a little RAIN.”
It makes me long for even this time next week; when there was still possible to believe that the majority of people are inherently good; when there remained the very real possibility that Farage might die in his sleep the very night before his horrifying excuse for a party was drowned in a tide of reactionary “not on my watch” votes for the lesser of two evils.
This time last week, the world didn’t seem nearly so horrible as it seems now. After all, I had just seen Prince.
Read the full dispatch from what already feels like a more innocent time here.