First Love

Scott MacKenzie died yesterday, and so with him, a tiny piece of a tiny childhood. San Francisco was one of the first songs I remember listening to, lying on my purple carpet, on repeat. Wishing I was anywhere else – but chiefly in a commune in the Bay Area – as long as it wasn’t Gloucestershire, and the promise of school. Now all the song does is transport me back to the very place I dreamt I’d leave: to a house with a new family, to a room with a new carpet, to the same pool of sunlight that fell right by my stereo player.

Music, Photography

Primitive, Girl

There ain’t no dance like a slow dance (if you ask my thirteen year-old self) and there ain’t no version of Let’s Dance like M. Ward’s (if you were to ask any aged version of me) so me and him (by which I mean, Ryan and I) went to go ch-ch-ch-check out M.Ward at Koko last week, in the second such outing since he visited these shores sometime earlier this year. And as much as there was no slow dancing (or singing: apparently, a full band is no reason to let the rest of the audience you know the words and are happy to be heard singing along completely out of tune) there was foot tapping, and lots of whooping, and a steadfast recommendation that should M.Ward ever deign to come again (and he may not – we were 6 feet away and I was sneaking photographs as well as mouthing the words slightly audibly and everyone knows M.Ward doesn’t do photos) you must go, because his voice is like the richest sort of bourbon, and his band play their instruments like they were an extension of their own bodies, and I had such fun I almost forgot that it was 11.30 p.m. by the time we left, and a Monday, and that I’d effectively ruined any chance of surviving a week of work before I’d even got going.

*All photos taken with the VSCO Cam app.