Ghost at Wembley:
…are an extreme metal band from the U.S., who I have been listening to quite a lot on Spotify recently.
While cooking yesterday, I called up some of their tracks on YouTube to keep me company as the pork chop rinds were crisping away in the oven.
Later on in the evening, I mentioned to Mrs A how much I had enjoyed listening to Cattle Decapitation while making lunch. And, as a result, for the second time in a week, she called into question my credentials as a civilised human being.
She actually thought that I was listening to the sound of cows having their heads cut off – and getting off to it so much that I was extolling its charms to her.
I sometimes wonder what I’ve done to deserve such judgments…
Wondering if Chris Cornell’s undoubted talent as a singer was an accident of birth, or something cultivated?
His throat gave him a golden voice – one of the all-time great instruments of rock ‘n’ roll, while mine just gave me Obstructive Sleep Apnoea.
Doesn’t seem fair…
p.s. Just realised what a dick-headed post this is as he’s no longer with us…
It’s so hard to write and to think deeply with Katrina and the Waves blaring out on the pub playlist. I am not particularly miserable at the moment, but neither am I ‘Walking on Sunshine‘. In fact, I resent this song for the simple reason that I have never ever been as happy as she sounds when she sings this song.
I didn’t even like sunshine at all for many years; even on holiday I’d try to avoid it. It simply didn’t make me happy. While everyone else was in shorts and keen to get a tan, I’d cover myself up, walking around as pallid as a Southern Belle, obviously, of course, minus the charm and the inheritance.
“Oh me, oh my Mr Butler, why I simply can not abide this blazing Norfolk sun!” I would say while fanning myself.
It’s OK now though, ‘Loser‘ by Beck has just come on and restored my mood.
I simply love it when I stumble upon an interesting new word!
This one came about by accident when having a chat in my local hostelry. The day before I had been sitting at a table in the back, writing in my notebook. There was a sudden change in the atmosphere and I knew it was raining. The smell was unmistakable and a glance out of the window only confirmed what I already knew as the pour began.
A day or so later at the same venue, I was chatting with a good friend about music that she might like and remembered an album by Mortiis, The Smell of Rain, which had been a favourite of mine when it came out a few years ago.
I duly Googled the name but was met by the following revelation from Wikipedia as the first result:
Petrichor (/ˈpɛtrɪkɔːr/) is the earthy scent produced when rain falls on dry soil. The word is constructed from Greek πέτρα petra, meaning “stone”, and ἰχώρ īchōr, the fluid that flows in the veins of the gods in Greek mythology.
I love that something like this actually has a name – and one with such an exotic etymology too.
…a good Celine Dion video!