It’s a summer thing, a city thing, basic anthropology. The heat (and it never grows that hot), and then it all goes rather mental. The expanses of doughy, white flesh. The explicit displays of public drunkenness. And in the centre of the city, what I first took to be Glasgow’s Slut Walk, but was in fact the annual Orange parade; because my pretend home city is modern, progressive, WTF. “I’ll put yer fuckin windaes in,” screamed the voice this morning. And fair play – it wasn’t an idle threat. A suitable ballistic was selected from the usual rubble lying on greasy pavement, and lobbed at the offending neighbour’s glasswork. Bounced off, mind. I’m sure that’s an allegory for something, although I’m yet to fall upon the specifics.
In other news: I’m drunk again (thank you spellchecker), my man crush on Dr Brian Cox is probably getting out of hand (it’s making others worried), and I’ve never been 100% about Eels, either one way or the other. Mark Evertett’s vox isn’t an attraction, and although it’s a horrible, subjective opinion, I’ve always detected an air of knowing to their songs that’s not to my taste. But this track is great; oodles of delicious, swampy guitar smeared all over the place. Cheers.
Eels / That’s Not Really Funny