Sorry about that. Kelli and I flew off to Maine. We spent most of our time on Mt. Desert Island. "Desert," in this case, is pronounced "dessert" (with a French accent, if you like). It was good and quiet. We drove along the coast in our pathetic PT Cruiser (Touring Edition), from Portland to Bar Harbor, listening to the new TV on the Radio. It starts off like a Sonic Youth song, but the drums change it all. And then the vocals change it more. Of the words I could make out: Hey hey, my baby / Won't you lay your hands on me / Mirror my malady / Transfer my tragedy. We decided that he really does sound like Peter Gabriel.
Because John is visiting manufacturers in Montreal, he missed this morning's rock awakening. We're gathered in my office, huddled round the sound, listening. "I'm glad John isn't here," says Elizabeth. "I need to break this in slowly."
Alright, Kristina, before you leave us for your boyfriend and Boston, before you dive into ontology and photography, before you dedicate your days to the books and your nights to the booze, before you lose track of the earth's revolutions keeping time, instead, with semesters and exams before all of that and everything else, if, in fact, you do decide you want to fill your spare moments with music good music, produced with magic then I've found a few things for you to read. I hope this will help.
Associate publisher, Keith Pray leads a parade of Primedia staffers from the office, down the hall, through the revolving doors, onto Madison Avenue, and into Mulligan's Irish Pub. On his way, he sings out:
I put this one in so you could hear some of the Cash Brothers in action. It came up in the comments to an earlier blog entry, and was a big reason for wanting to send you this disc. Note: the pop in the beginning is on the CD; maybe something in the master.