I’ve been groovin’ really hard to this lately. It’s hauntingly sad and strangely comforting, all at the same time. I’ve never heard of Kelli Scarr before, but holy cow, she’s got an amazing voice. I downloaded the track from the cursed iTunes that I hate so much but that’s a story for another day and I don’t want them to harsh my mellow. I’ve been listening to it in earphones at full blast. It’s got an amazing impact. Take a listen and if you like it you should download and listen to it just that way. You’ll thank me later. I promise.
Oh, and also download the full video podcast from NPR’s website that shows the making of the song. (Or watch it online.) It’s a really interesting look at the construction of a song from conception to completion. Moby did it astoundingly fast with awesome results, and time to spare so he recorded another couple versions. He was given nothing more to work with than a collaborator, a photo and a choice of two or three “concept” words. From that he extracted this. Lyrics and various music tracks, everything. AND he had to do it all in one sitting. So. Yeah. I feel real good about the filing I managed to accomplish today.
“Somewhere there’s a Sunday in the Fall,
Where everything you love is safe and warm.
Where everything was right.
But I’m never going home.
The sun is down, the lights have gone to sleep.
I never knew the dark could be so deep.
Somewhere you are warm.
But I’m never going home.”
One Response to Where Everything Was Right
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One should always be drunk. That's all that matters; that's our one imperative need. So as not to feel Time's horrible burden; one which breaks your shoulders and bows you down, you must get drunk without cease.
But with what? With wine, poetry, or virtue as you choose. But get drunk.
And if, at some time, on steps of a palace, in the green grass of a ditch, in the bleak solitude of your room, you are waking and the drunkenness has already abated, ask the wind, the wave, the stars, the clock, all that which flees, all that which groans, all that which rolls, all that which sings, all that which speaks, ask them, what time it is; and the wind, the wave, the stars, the birds, and the clock, they will all reply:
"It is time to get drunk!
So that you may not be the martyred slaves of Time, get drunk, get drunk, and never pause for rest! With wine, poetry, or virtue, as you choose!"
Charles Baudelaire




















This is so creepy. It’s just too matter of fact.