So now is the cd of choice.
That line confused You and for that I am not sorry for mustn't we, from time to time, challenge the syntax, the lack of commas and other dashes and hoopla.
So, Peter Gabriel, holy crap '86, the fortuna of Red Rain (with its quiet and building start) and In Your Eyes (with its Perfect timed arrivals into moments of driving), the unfortuna of Sledgehammer. And I'm sent into a moment painting Scot Fisher's mother's house out in Hamburg/Angola with Ani - and Scot came to say Hi and there he was, on the sofa we had drug over to the kitchen area, sprawled watching a Gabriel video on the television but I think most assuredly now, truth hovering just over and left to the scotch fumes, that it was for Big Time. Gabriel disc in the midst of where I rest my head in NYC, appropriate as I'm about to dive into Gabriel's online world of concerns via his site MUDDA. I'd link You there, but oh well, link to it here if you are so inclined and not on a speedboat of hurry and worry. Last night Beth (who puts me on buses) and I stood on a transferational platform (the first, I will indent, was a platform where not trains of any Letter stopped and we stood there talking for moments until we noted this and replied Hey, no trains stop on this side fercrissakes and righted our Gotham-crawling path) for the F to Essex Street (from the J/M/Z from the 4/5/6) to get to Tonic for Yours Truly to shoot some jazz creatures before the red velvet and before the adulant crowd.
In Your Eyes, I mean who really doesn't dig to the max a song (well perhaps anyone within earshot who hears it being played and replayed and rereplayed and rerereplayed) about driving and beyond. And who can't float with ideas looking at the wooden joists above free jazz while players slip and slide along instruments of choice. Chad Taylor, a drummer to excavate, and elder saxman Fred Anerson and the kid bassplayer = primo. Beth, in my eyes, transformed herself into the most effusive jazz fan and I was duly impressed.
Joist Stare Love.