SUNDAY NIGHT FEVER

Dusty Springfield - I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself

Once again I’ve found myself awake at 4am watching videos of Dusty Springfield. This seems to be a regular occurrence in my life but it’s one that I enjoy. I often wonder what it is about the sixties and this woman that I love to such an extent: so much so that I have delayed writing a YouTune about it for a long time because I want to do it and her justice.

I think my passion for the sixties as a decade first sprung when I was a child and would religiously watch episodes of the 1960’s-set drama Heartbeat on a Sunday night. My boyfriend and I recently reminisced about how the theme tune would send shivers down our spines with the thought of having to start a whole new week at school again the next day. It is only now that I realise why I loved the show so much: it was the music. My parents had the CD soundtrack from Heartbeat and I would sneak it into my room to listen to hoping not to be caught because I felt like someone my age (probably about 10 at the time) shouldn’t be listening to that sort of music. It was old and my parents liked it…that wasn’t cool. Except now, (aged 22) I find myself frequently listening to nothing but the very music I would have heard on that album and I feel so attached to it.

My absolute admiration for and obsession with Dusty Springfield can be summed up with one song in particular. “I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself” presents a kind of power in conveying emotion that I have never witnessed before. Every word sounds like a heartbroken cry: the pain and feelings behind the lyrics of the song are echoed in each sound that Dusty makes.  You almost wouldn’t even need the words. As Marc Almond said “She could sing the phonebook and make it sound like a heart-rending, touching, lovelorn ballad.” The song has almost brought me to tears on many occasions, despite being in an upbeat mood when listening. That is how devastatingly touching it is.

I can’t bear that I will never see someone I adore so much perform live. To me, she’s the best representative for the importance of music’s longevity. I may have not even been born when she was first around and I was only 10 when she died but with a huge discography, she is still here. Things do go a little deeper and I can’t say everything I would like to because you and I would be getting far too personal about it. But I hope this will get you to listen to her and that perfect voice on undoubtedly one of the best songs of all time, even if it does make you cry.

Meagan Molloy
http://www.meaganmolloy.co.uk

HOME TRUTHS

Fyfe Dangerfield - High On The Tide

One of my albums of last year is ‘Fly Yellow Moon’, the debut solo effort from Guillemots frontman Fyfe Dangerfield. When Dan Black-esque album opener ‘When You Walk In The Room’ was the iTunes single of the week, I didn’t expect the rest of the album to be quite as different, and acoustic-orientated as it is. Ranging from the fantastic high of ‘She Needs Me’ to the delicacy of ‘Firebird’ or ‘Livewire’, and the anthemic ‘Faster Than The Setting Sun’; it certainly deserved the increased exposure it received from his gorgeous cover of Billy Joel’s ‘She’s Always A Woman’ being featured on a John Lewis TV ad. Rather more deserved than the exposure received after in the same way by ‘honestly, I’m frail’ Ellie Goulding, but thats a different story.

Nestling nicely mid-album is a nice little ditty called ‘High On The Tide’. Opening lyric ‘There’s salt in the air, its a taste that I know’ sets the scene, and the verse ends with a ‘cheap train ticket carrying me back to my home’. This is indeed the path my life has taken in the last few months. In that post-graduate haze I had a brief stint living in Cardiff, but pretty underwhelmed by the experience after having lived in London for several years, I came home at the bottom of my overdraft and at a pretty low ebb.

Most graduates find themselves in this position, and it was simply money landing me in this state. Coming back home after being independent is a strange smack in the face, and not being able to pursue my career quite as ably in this small town on the coast is a frustrating realisation. However, slowly but surely, I’m learning how to battle these facts and look toward the end goal, and battle away the low moods and anxiety that I’ve been experiencing; ‘High on the tide, chasing my demons away completely’. But theres far more than just career opportunities I’m missing…

On a recent visit from my girlfriend, we walked along the beach from my hometown to the next; a lovely one hour stroll, and a funny one hour trek through rocks and mud, before a sit in a beer garden. ‘With the waves on the shore and the sea in my hair. I can honestly say this - I really and truly don’t care’. I was content. The times we can be together are the best of my life. Its not the places I miss, its the people. So when I find great solace in friends, ‘for once in my life, I’m glad to be here and not there’, I feel found again. ‘Finally this world resembles something’.

Theres still an element of worry at the end of the song, as Fyfe sings ‘Don’t wake me up and tell me that you’re leaving, I already know’. Coping alone is nowhere near as easy. But as the carefree whistles at the end of the song fade, it seems like whatever I feel, life goes on. We all move on to the next song, it just takes a little bit of time sometimes.

Tom Stephens
Editor
http://tomstephens.tumblr.com

CURTAINS CLOSED, FACE STILL ATTACHED

Burial - Archangel

There are no words, really, that can describe how much love I have for Burial, how his music has been so emotive and powerful. But then, for me, that is the beauty of his music, the fact there there is no real verse, chorus, bridge… just the same few sentences, questions, the same words, over and over, but you can’t quite make it out. Could it be alone? Couldn’t be alone. Let it be alone? I could listen to this another hundred times and still not be sure. But that is exactly what makes this tune so powerful: it can take on any meaning you wish. You can be walking home from a night (and usually an early morning) out, hear this and be buzzing with elation, partly due to the copious amount of pharmaceuticals, partly due to the intensity of the song.  You could be sitting in a cafe, with your headphones on, not giving a second thought to the rest of the world and just listen to this song, over and over. Because for that brief moment in your life, nothing else matters. I find it extremely humbling that someone I have never met, have never known, can somehow have the ability to describe exactly how you’re feeling at that precise moment in time. But that emotion can change every single time you hear this track. Every time you listen to the lyrics and focus on what Burial is trying to tell you, it changes. The ambiguity is the beauty of this track.

The one resounding lyric that can be made out is “tell me I belong…” which is a feeling that you can relate to at many points in your life. Whether its at school, within the family unit, with your partner or someone you love… just to have that acceptance. For me, I can relate it to many aspects of my life, but mainly to one of my friends. This song made me realise that whether I am their friend, best friend, lover, soulmate, I just needed to be there. I just needed to belong in their eyes, in some context, in their life. Despite our history and things that had happened in the past, I could not let go. Other lyrics have jumped out at me at other times of hearing this song; once the only lyrics I could hear sounded like “to think that i trusted you”… when actually it’s “he better trust you.” Just shows the ambiguity of the song, and how your situation impacts upon your understanding. Music like this has become almost therapeutic, to swim into the heart of the song and pick out the parts that are relevant and poignant to you at any given time.

Many people (of which i used to be one) think of Dubstep and they think of Trolley Snatcha ‘Where’s my Money?’, heavy bass, pikeys, comments like “that songs dirtier than your mum’s underwear”….. and yes, music like that may well have a time and a place far away from my ears. Sure, at a rave when you’re a bit Charlie Sheened, that’s a different matter, but there’s only so much a jaw can take. There’s so many sub genres of Dubstep, like this, that deserve more recognition, for being able to blow you away without blowing your face off.  I recommend that whatever your personal opinion of dubstep, you just close your door, close the curtains, close your eyes and have this on repeat. Whoever you are, this song has the ability to make you return to a vulnerable moment in your life, and give it a new definition, because everyone has at one point in their life had something they can’t find the words to express.

Jenny Barlow

SUMMERS AT 88MPH

KT Tunstall - Universe & U

This song has nothing to do with a broken heart, depression or falling hopelessly in love. The memories that it evokes are not sparked by the lyrics. In truth, if I am going to be completely honest, I’m not even sure that it is this song that was playing at the particular time that I’m going to recount for your reading pleasure.

But it was most definitely KT Tunstall.

It was most definitely her voice that I heard whilst standing outside a burger van one morning last July. This particular burger van, along with others of its ilk selling ridiculously overpriced food to hungry festival-goers, stood on the frankly enormous field of Warwick School; in, (funnily enough) Warwick. My second folk weekend at Warwick had come to an end that morning, and it was grey-skied and raining. A family was huddled beneath the white tarpaulin in the centre of the food stands. Things were winding down; motor homes were making their way towards the exit gate, tents were disappearing into bags and boots of cars. It was that sad time that comes at the end of any festival; the temporary and vibrant city that fills a field slowly but surely dies away. The only tell-tale reminders are the yellowing patches of grass, sad little squares dotted around the campsite that emerge as tents are packed up and shoved into storage. 

My first camping experience came at the age of 17. Anyone who knows me well knows how much camping and festivals mean to me. Without wishing to sound melodramatic, my life changed during the summer of 2006, when I became a volunteer steward at the local Folk Week festival. And while the Warwick burger van memory awakened by K.T. Tunstall’s soft Scottish tones was not epiphanic, the experience that preceded it by five summers certainly was.

I still find it remarkable how disarming songs can be. An opening chord, a flicker of guitar strings, a particular lyric, and we’re held captive by our hearts and minds. Even the high-pitched whine of a zip takes me back to rain-spattered tents and sleeping next to my then beloved on uncomfortable ground. The lurch in my chest when I realised the last morning had come and everyone would be packing up and saying goodbye. Bleary eyed morning bellows as each of us poked our head out of our little canvas caves into sun, or more often, summer rain.

Tunstall’s ‘Universe and U’ (if it was indeed that track that I heard as a dark-haired woman handed me a tea and bacon butty) is just one of many songs that would feature on the soundtracks of my life. I say soundtracks, because I think there would be a different one for different phases of my life. For example:

• University (this would be one hell of a mix tape!)
• Gap Year
• Camping Adventures
• {insert name of ex-boyfriend here}

You get the picture. And that’s the wonderful thing. Songs gingerly creep or boisterously blast their way out of our laptop/iPod/CD player and your mind hurtles you back days, months, years. It’s the closest thing to time-travel that we have. God help us if we ever lose it.

Amy Claire Barnes
http://thursdayschild88.tumblr.com

REAL, AROUND THE FOUNTAIN

The Smiths - Reel Around The Fountain

It annoys me when people say matter-of-factly that if you are ‘sad’, then you shouldn’t listen to ‘sad’ music, or that ‘it makes you feel worse’. These are often the kind of people who think anything with a guitar or in a minor key is worthy of suicide though so I suppose that says a lot in itself. But, like Amy Barnes wrote in her post about ‘Tiny Vessels’, I find great comfort in hearing somebody tell me they feel the same. And in that respect, its less ‘sad’ to listen to that than to listen to somebody saying how great they feel.

The Smiths is considered ‘sad’ music to most people, admittedly. But it is intelligent and mature. At a time when punk had just passed by, The Smiths seemed to take their disillusionment and put it in to something slightly more timeless, less of the era. It seems to appeal to people now in their twenties who weren’t, or barely were alive during their existence. Having grown up in a period of Britpop and some good British indie music, its easy for me, and many others, to find the sonic link back to the Smiths. But I wonder if current teenagers, sucking on the teet of My Chemical Romance and co. would consider something such as ‘Reel Around The Fountain’ quite so timeless. I’m hopeful it will, because teenage angst only lasts so long, but deeper emotions are lifelong.

I’m not going to talk about if Morrissey is gay or not, or if he supports Manchester United or not, or if he’s a pretentious prick or not. Theres a lot of people who have ridiculous opinions of hatred or godliness and fascination about him for some reason. Just like its said that you should never meet your idols, I wouldn’t want to find out too much, I like it being a little more vague, and not too definable. It removes possible personal relation. Nope, all I am saying, is that he’s a rather good lyricist, and The Smiths certainly find a way to resonate within me.

‘Reel Around The Fountain’ is probably my favourite Smiths song. Can’t even tell you why. But in times of despair, as Morrissey talks of taking a child and making him old, its impossible to not feel taken in, and feeling like he’s singing about somebody just like me, even if everyone goes through it.

I seem to be able to listen to them at almost any time. It isn’t ‘sad’ to me at all. At times it is witty, at times cynical, at times hopeful, elating, despairing, and everything in-between, but that is what life is. It just all feels very real.

Tom Stephens
Editor
http://tomstephens.tumblr.com

CAB FOR THE HISTORY BOYS

Death Cab For Cutie - Tiny Vessels

It’s an experience that I imagine to be universal; we’ve all had it. 

You’re lying, or sitting, (it doesn’t really matter which) on your bed in your room. You’re in one of those pensive, blue moods. You’re not unhappy, and you’re not sad. You’re drifting somewhere in between. And then a voice cuts through the room and speaks to you directly, and it’s as if someone has reached into your chest and wrapped their fingers around that space where you store all of your sentimentalities. 

It contracts, and your sense of wonder expands. 

I’ve had similar experiences with many Death Cab tracks. Ben Gibbard’s lyrics have a way of winding themselves around your mind and quietly refusing to budge from the deep recesses of your memory. This song is no exception.

Post break-up (be it weeks, months, and if you’re really unlucky, years), we sometimes search for something to encapsulate our experience. In my case, it’s usually a song that I go searching for. Often my attempts at finding the perfect song to summarise my erratic post break-up moods prove fruitless, which sends me spiralling further into half-arsed woe or trawling hopefully through artists on Spotify in search of that song. But on this occasion, the words to ‘Tiny Vessels’ drifted from my laptop speakers over to where I sat upon my bed, and encased within a few softly sung lines the relationship that had tried, tested and infuriated me:

I wanted to believe in all the words that I was speaking,
As we moved together in the dark
And all the friends that I was telling
All the playful misspellings
and every bite I gave you left a mark

Tiny vessels oozed into your neck
And formed the bruises
That you said you didn’t want to fade
But they did, and so did I that day

All I see are dark Grey clouds
In the distance moving closer with every hour
So when you ask “Is something wrong?”
I think “You’re damn right there is but we can’t talk about it now.
No, we can’t talk about it now.”

The last 2 lines struck me as being unnervingly relevant. I was transported back to an office; I may have been self-consciously twirling my anxious body as I sat on a swivel chair. Hiding my eyes and my true feelings. Kind words and tender touches of my hand threw my resolve into doubt and I pushed my misgivings to the back of my mind. 

To carry out a further extensive lyrical analysis would be to divulge too much of myself and my relationship with a particular person, but I can’t stress enough the impact of this song upon me that evening, and with every listen since. 

In Alan Bennett’s fantastic play, ‘The History Boys’, an English teacher is discussing a poem with one of his young male students:

“The best moments in reading are when you come across something - a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things - that you’d thought special, particular to you. And here it is, set down by someone else, a person you’ve never met, maybe even someone long dead. And it’s as if a hand has come out, and taken yours.”

I can’t help feeling that this applies to music too. Sometimes, lyrics find their way to you. It can be during your darkest hour or your liveliest celebration. But I really believe that there’s a song out there for every situation, for every person who strives to put something into words but who needs to know that someone else has got there first.

Amy Claire Barnes
http://thursdayschild88.tumblr.com

DO DO DO DOGGING

Kate Bush - Hounds Of Love

For years, I thought Kate Bush was just that crazy woman who wore a white dress, danced like a nutter and sang in an…interesting…voice. Though, I’m sure I wasn’t alone in my initial impressions of this singer. Then she became the woman who originally sang ‘Hounds of Love’, when The Futureheads did a cracking cover of it, when I was about 16. I have very fond memories of singing along to it with a load of friends at a house party back then. Eventually, more than just ‘Wuthering Heights’ found its way onto my iTunes (probably down to the fact that some of my favourite musicians like Patrick Wolf and Placebo had covered some songs) and I started to listen to her properly.

‘Hounds of Love’ took a while to win me over. I found Kate’s use of ‘do do do’ where The Futureheads had filled same parts of the song with such body by using multiple vocalists, somewhat lacklustre. It felt like half a song for a while because only one person was making it. However, one day I think Kate’s version came on and with my speakers up loud, I finally grasped a huge level of appreciation for the song and her as an artist. I would certainly suggest that ‘Hounds of Love’ works better with a louder volume: it seems to give this song in particular much more power.

The tribal-like drumming and the lyrics started to jump out at me. With The Futureheads version it had been much more about the song being performed by a whole band and the clever vocal arrangements, creating optimum opportunity for sing-alongs. Whereas the words in her version created lots of interesting imagery in my head and I felt compelled to go out and take photos when hearing the song. But also, it reminded me of photographs that I had already taken. Her mention of tress, the darkness, water and the story of her fear about being followed really struck me and felt relative to my artwork.  I almost see it as a musical version of what my pictures often concern.

As someone who is constantly anxious in life and forever having nightmares about being chased, when I turn this song up loud, I feel like I can face things a bit more. I’m a Morrissey fan and sort of see her in the same light as I do him: feeling a similar kind of connection to them both. They seem to emphasise the individual and represent vulnerability. Perhaps she’s a little more surreal but I see them as equally mysterious and intelligent.

‘Hounds of Love’ just feels incredibly liberating to me. I think everyone has a song like that: a song that makes them feel like they are capable and can take things head on. It’s powerful and beautiful and has made my glass a little less ‘half empty’.

Meagan Molloy

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Meagan-Molloy-Photo-Artist/161379210570690

COUP DE GRACE (UNDER PRESSURE)

Elbow - Switching Off

There are songs that you listen to and instantly know that they’re going to underscore moments in your life, especially when you’re a teenager. Every song could turn into that perfect moment a la Skins where you’re pissed and stoned. You’re wandering through a party surrounded by people but you’re alone with the strains of Billy Corgan’s cover of Never Let You Down Again by Depeche Mode playing over the top. Life is not like an episode of Skins though and rarely does reality fit a song so perfectly. I first heard this song as an angst ridden teen (very late I might add, but I was still a teen) wandering alone through the streets of my backwards university town. It conjured up images of that perfect love, that one that would be with you right up until the moments your brain switched off for sleep. It was a love that you couldn’t escape and one that was fairy tale. It was something that couldn’t happen, yet it was a lovely enough song and would definitely be a romantic one, one to remember if you ever got involved with a woman.

Fast-forward a few years and I’m now going out with someone. It’s only been a few weeks yet the thorny issue of Christmas has come along and announced itself. Already we were smitten and she had given me a lovely written list of things to do while alone over Christmas. I needed something, something big. Cue the mix CD with some barnstorming tunes, tunes I thought she should like and of course stupid tunes with hidden romantic meanings. Switching Off made its way onto the CD and I chose to use the lyrics as the coup-de-grace to the letter that accompanied it. At first it seemed to be a typically cynical ploy from me. A perfect use of romantic words and a song to make sure I kept the fires burning over Christmas, but as I was writing the words and re-listening to the song it suddenly had resonance. The words were how I felt, the song was how I felt and luckily enough it was how she felt too. Out of nowhere, after vowing to never be in a couple or one of those couples who had ‘a song’ we had ‘a song’.

It’s not one of those songs you dance to at parties and it’s not one of those you force your friends to listen to while regaling them with tales of how perfect you are together. It’s your song. If it plays at a party you don’t announce to others that this is the song of your relationship and act all smug, you just make eye contact for a fleeting moment and smile. In your quietest moments together it can play and nothing else matters and when it comes to your Wedding day nothing sums it up better. 

Sometimes songs are worth sharing with other people and the wider world and bands need the exposure. Other times though songs need hiding away and protecting as they’re precious and important. This is one of those songs. Glorious; important; precious; ours. Mine and her’s.

Anonymous

KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON

Manic Street Preachers - Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head

Listening to this song now evokes a mixture of thoughts and feelings.

I’d heard this song way before I witnessed the Manic Street Preachers perform it live at the Southampton Guildhall. When I was a kid, I had a little plastic yellow toy ‘radio’, which only played one song: Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head. It was a twinkly instrumental tune; the sound was reminiscent of those thumb pianos you can get. 

Anyway, to the Manics rendition. It was October 19th 2010, the day before my 22nd birthday. In all honesty, I wasn’t in a brilliant place psychologically. Depression, anxiety and paranoia had reared their ugly heads and attacked me full on. Compulsively checking my phone, working myself into a state and questioning my relationship. Some people say bad things come in threes. The train journey to Southampton was nightmarish, as I sat there plagued by all of these concerns whirling around in my mind. But once there, sat atop a double decker bus on my way to meet my two friends, I talked myself around. It’s the day before your birthday, I said to myself. You’re going to see an awesome band tonight with two of your best friends. Push this aside and don’t give any more attention to it.

So I did.

That night, after a thoroughly enjoyable prelude of pizza, drinking and musical trivia, my friends and I made our way to Southampton Guildhall. We caught the end of British Sea Power’s set, and secured ourselves a spot to the left of the stage several rows back. I couldn’t see much, but I could see a mic stand adorned with a feather boa. There was no doubt in my mind that a lanky bassist with a penchant for glitter would be standing behind it before long, and Nicky Wire certainly didn’t disappoint. 

Despite my limited view, which was due to my annoyingly small stature and the number of tall people in front of me, I bopped along quite happily in pink and blue light whilst James Dean Bradfield belted out his trademark Welsh yell. Then it came. They introduced the track with a little back story, and explained that it had helped them come to terms with the disappearance of bandmate and close friend, Richey Edwards. 

I was struck by how simple yet beautiful their rendition was. James Dean Bradfield’s voice shivered, peaked and retreated in all the right places. It was an absolutely perfect moment, but at that point I had no idea of how it would help me get through my own hard time.

My 22nd birthday arrived the following morning, and once back in Guildford I walked along the river in the sunshine back to my house. My anxiety had subsided significantly and a warm reception of presents, cards and affection welcomed me when I returned home to my housemates. The day unfolded, and I spent a slightly strained but still enjoyable meal with my then boyfriend. The evening consisted of more friends and a subdued boy, who quietly turned his back and fell asleep next to me.

The next morning, our relationship was over. I was distraught. I felt that I had failed at yet another relationship, and after a distressing period of gut wrenching sobbing, I hastily packed a holdall and headed home to Margate for a few days. Everything had peaked at that point, and I realised that I was ill again and that I couldn’t cope without help. I decided to return to counselling and to medication. Again, I believed myself to be a failure.

During one evening at home, sitting drained and depressed with my laptop on the sofa, I searched for the Manic Street Preachers on Spotify, and found Raindrops. The lyrics took on a new relevance to me, and the song became my go-to pick-me-up in the weeks that followed.

Raindrops keep falling on my head… And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed, nothing seems to fit. Those raindrops are falling on my head, they keep falling.

So I just did me some talking to the sun. And I said I didn’t like the way, he got things done… sleeping on the job… those raindrops are falling on my head, they keep falling. 

But there’s one thing I know: The blues they send to meet me won’t defeat me. It won’t be long till happiness steps up to greet me. 

Raindrops keep falling on my head but that doesn’t mean my eyes will soon be turning red. Crying’s not for me cause I’m never gonna stop the rain by complaining. Because I’m free. Nothing’s worrying me.

The lyrics are fantastic, because they thinly veil real pain by attempting a cheery and happy-go-lucky attitude when the rain starts falling. The words are infused with a simple logic; complaining and crying will not make things better, but they are part of the process. The ambiguity of the last verse is poignant, as you’re never sure whether or not the pain is still there or if it has been conquered.

“Because I’m free/Nothing’s worrying me”. We all do it. We all smile and say that we’re fine when things have fallen apart. But as long as we acknowledge the pain, address it and give it the attention it deserves (and not one moment more), we then start to move on. 

Amy Claire Barnes

TAKING THE BISCUIT

Jenny And Johnny - Switchblade

Over the last month I have become somewhat of a broken record, reiterating with gusto to anyone who will listen about how I have been enveloped with a bad case of the graduate blues. A empathetic friend said to me not long ago that this year between graduating and achieving a stable life is probably going to be one of the hardest yet. I’ve found myself finally freed by the bounds of education and completely structureless for the first time since I was four, back when I couldn’t even go to the toilet unaccompanied. Like most other graduates, I have no idea what I’m doing, no money and increasingly, no remaining enthusiasm.

There I am on particularly dire afternoon, feasting on biscuits with the new man in my life, my bed, when the sultry tones of beautiful musical duo Jenny and Johnny meet my ears. Having been a fan of Jenny Lewis for years, I was certain her debut album with boyfriend Johnathan Rice, I’m Having Fun Now, would be a corker. However I expected it to be full of wise owl twitterings and the story of a balanced and successful life, but alas, they seemed just as lost as I was. I put down my biscuits.

The song this post is specifically dedicated to is sleepy, melodic Switchblade, where Jenny’s beast of a voice takes a backseat, backing Johnathan’s up with wistful harmonies and melancholic whispers. The song had me with its first line, ‘It’s been one long year of Saturday nights’, befitting as the new year had just been, and I was engaged in a hardcore reflection of the year just past, a year that seemed to consist of waiting for the next day to dawn.

Then we get to the deal breaker, ‘Sleeping through the afternoon, with your latest only one’. Johnathan’s deliciously gritty, lethargy-laced vocals dress this line perfectly, painting a picture of two people drugged by apathy, trapped in a world that is soaked in late afternoon sun, where dreams are better than reality. This is a picture too true for many people that I know right now, our pockets full of idle hands and our hoods full of lost heads.

I interpret this song as a burst of longing for the destitution and chaos they used to live in - “you used to dine out on a dollar, with a switchblade in your coat. You had your young mind in the gutter, you had your feet on the ground”. In hones the realisation that riches and early nights are not necessarily what I need at the age of 22, and that perhaps by blue state has derived from the fact that I am looking at things all wrong.

By far my favourite part of the song, both for the music and the lyrics, is when Johnathan wearily sings: “It was poverty that kept you sweet, and dreams that kept you young. The money started rolling in, you stopped having any fun”. For me this song encapsulates a person achieving the levels of success that they had always dreamt of, but it still not being enough. We have our entire lives to be comfortable and contented, but we only really have the chance to live in squalor once.

A track that I struggle to find any fault with, this cracking song tells me that instead of longing for the future, we should embrace what is happening now before we’re old and full of regret. It’s a song that says mate, stop moaning and start living. Which I will.. after these biscuits.

Rebecca Parnell
http://graduatesgrumble.blogspot.com/