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You might find your small soul

The thrill here is quicker than you’d think
The way some jet-lagged bar kept pouring the wine
From over their heads then sit back down again
Four times is once too much for luck
And that’s how many times the clock struck
I wandered home, saying your name

The arches here were built ’cause they don’t fall
The cathedrals to make you feel small
You might find your small soul
But leave the preaching to the president
The crowd cheers, his eyes get wet
I’m full as it is, I’m full as it is
So don’t feed me more

You’ll be having my head, big as a birthday
‘Cause I left all my doubts on the airplane
I didn’t know, I didn’t know I’m not in control
I didn’t know, I’m not invincible

And maybe some things are better left unsaid
But if you wanted to test that, out well, yeah, I guess, you could’ve said
But there were nights in bars that I recall
Your breath was courage laced with alcohol
You leaned in, and said,
“Make music with the chatter in here,
And whisper all the notes in my ears.”
I didn’t know, I didn’t know the weight of my tongue
I didn’t know, I didn’t know what I’d done

The lights here are softer than you’d think
The dim lit peacocks in the trees,
They’re hiding their eyes and their beauty, like me
But if my eyes were on my back
I know what I’d be looking at
Through every shade of browns and greens
I didn’t know, I didn’t know it was nothing new
I didn’t know, I didn’t know it was you

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Bizarre Celebrations: Happy New Year

a Happy New Year’s Eve deserves a happy song, imo

Let’s have bizarre celebrations…

Let’s forget who, forget what, forget where.
We’ll have bizarre celebrations…
I’ll play the Satyr in Cyprus, you the bride being stripped bare.

Let’s pretend we don’t exist, let’s pretend we’re in Antarctica.
Let’s pretend we don’t exist, let’s pretend we’re in Antarctica.

Let’s have bizarre celebrations … let’s forget when, forget what, forget how.
We’ll have bizarre celebrations … we’ll play Tristan and Iseult, but make sure I see white sails.

Let’s pretend we don’t exist, let’s pretend we’re in Antarctica.
Let’s pretend we don’t exist, let’s pretend we’re in Antarctica.

Maybe I’ll never die, I’ll just keep growing younger with you, and you’ll grow younger, too.
Now it seems too lovely to be true, but I know the best things always do.

Let’s pretend we don’t exist, let’s pretend we’re in Antarctica.

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I wish I had somewhere to go

There are days where I really luck out on my lunch hour and get to catch a performance in the rain.

This fellow is named Alan, and he is banned from a local corner store called The Den after a feud with the owner who sounds like a bit of a dick if you ask me. Alan is a ramblin’ man, with calloused hands, a thick head of hair, and a beautiful guitar that he accompanies through a variety of music perfect for hearing on a rainy day.

a musician belting out covers of Conway Twitty in addition to songs he's written
a musician belting out covers of Conway Twitty in addition to songs he’s written

I was fortunate enough to catch an admittedly poor recording of one of his original tunes and I enjoyed meeting him. He’s never met an Emory before, and it pleased me to be the first.

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a Sunday Morning with Lou Reed

It was the voice of a sullen siren named Nico that first drew me in.

But in the afterglow of Femme Fatale was the poetry of Lou Reed that got into my brain and became part of my blood. Eventually it would be his words that reinforced my bohémien bridges and made them structurally sound.

Like a lot of my favorite music, I first heard the Velvet Underground courtesy of my BFF Eric. The Velvet Underground & Nico was a toaster in my bathtub; an electrifying restless joyride into teenaged angst and cigarette smoke. Hearing them for the first time lifted a veil on a part of the sound of Sonic Youth I could never put my finger on before, the man behind the curtain of what I loved about music. It was his Load-Bearing Rock that could make me feel stronger when I felt weak, and brave when I felt scared.

I’ll be dropping a needle on my well-loved 12″ of Loaded soon and looking forward to all tomorrow’s parties. Like Beardless Harry you’re certainly good enough for heaven.

Safe home, Lou Reed.

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Waiting Room

I filmed this in 2001, at one of Fugazi’s free concerts held in a park in Washington DC. I was with my BFF and we were delightfully well-rocked by the end of it all. I don’t remember for certain which park it was in, but I believe it was Glover Archbold Park because I remember being near Georgetown and American University and leaving town via the GW Parkway after being bumper to bumper for A BILLION HOURS.

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12″: Dreamboat Annie

The album cover art that would eventually destroy this band, but bring us BARRACUDA

My love is the evening breeze touching your skin
The gentle sweet singing of leaves in the wind

The whisper that calls, after you in the night
And kisses your ear in the early light

You don’t need to wonder, you’re doing fine
And my love, the pleasure’s mine

Let me go crazy on you
Crazy on You, Heart

See also — One of my favorite scenes in a film that this song always reminds me of; Lux Lisbon’s1 secret visit to Trip Fontaine’s2 car for a frantic make-out session in Sofia Coppola’s film adaptation of The Virgin Suicides:


  1. Kirstin Dundst 

  2. Josh Hartnett 

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12″: Give Up

Give Up
In 2003, the Postal Service released their debut album on SubPop Records. It was SubPop’s second platinum release since their first, Nirvana’s Bleach

This album is one of my favorites, and every single track reverberates for days after I listen to it. I know that there are moments that aren’t particularly strong lyrically, but the rest are transcendent.

Buying this album on 12″ also gets you a delightful second record of B-sides and remixes.