This week’s camp theme is “Knights & Princesses” and since we are not on a beach as planned this week, the sprout is attending. He came home today telling me that they were singing Puff as part of their end-of-week performance.
Imagine my relief when I learned it will only be the chorus so I will not have to ugly cry my way through camp pickup.
I have had this song stuck in my head this week. I loved it and thought it was so romantic when I was 9. Okay, also probably when I was 15. Maybe even 27.
Now the idea of two people fighting over me–or me fighting with another person over someone–just makes me feel tired and a little ain’t nobody got time for that.
I love you more than he! (Take you anywhere!)
Welcome back to the 1970s, England.
There’s no future for you.
Twenty-seven years after my friend finally convinced me that the Cure was the one of the best things to happen to music, I saw them in concert. Our neighbors’ son got sick and they had the miss the show, circumstances that led me to attempt to curb my enthusiasm because celebrating someone’s misfortune leading to your own good fortune is bad juju in just about every culture.
When the tickets went on sale in November I was in the midst of a months-long inflammatory flare and barely leaving my house beyond absolute necessity. Committing to an outdoor nighttime concert was inconceivable. When a spattering of locals started offering up their tickets for various sad reasons the day before, I was surprised and excited to realize that I absolutely could do this. (With a seat; my joints don’t do four hours sitting on the ground anymore.)
What is there to say about the Cure? Friends across the country have been reporting on this show as it travels. The love, the energy, the three-hour sets. It was all of that and so many memories of so many friends. On my 16th birthday I was given most of their discography dubbed on yellow Memorex. On my 17th birthday I was given a card with the lyrics to a Cure love song. Every song they played last night (that was recorded before 1995) was the favorite song of someone I know.
Among the people I know, there are Cure people and Smiths people. And you know how I feel about the Smiths.
Happy Father’s Day.
Preschool. Is. Over.
We have twinges of sadness, as the sprout has had the best teacher on earth for the past two years.
Only twinges though.
The sprout loves this song, and after hearing this punk rock cover I have to agree.
Haters gonna hate hate hate hate hate.
The first half of my life this far was fairly melancholy, if my musical memory is anything to go on. Also, I apparently always had a soft spot for violins.
Baby needs a brand new pair of eyes; the ones you got now see only goodbyes.
To be a non-preppy teenage girl in 1990 was to love this album and play it on repeat in the darkroom. (Yes, in the olden days of print photography, we spent hours in a magical place called the darkroom.)
Watching Peaky Blinders made me nostalgic for her voice; I haven’t listened to this in years but it is still magical. Girls, grief, and guitars, my rock and roll trifecta.
If I close my eyes, I can almost smell the chemicals and hear the clicks of the enlarger.
Great man, great athlete, great activist. Rest in power, Muhammad Ali.