It’s easy to navigate through the crowd who stare, mesmerised like zombies at the stage slowly shuffling their feet and bobbing their heads in rhythm to John McCrea’s deep grainy voice. They sway ever so slightly to the trumpet’s warm honey-esque melody. I make my way to the front right of the stage.
Sunday, 22 January 2012
Without opening her eyes just yet she took a moment to feel the warming of the sun on her skin, her knees, she noticed were oddly warmer than the rest of her body and seemed to be radiating heat. Shifting her hands slightly, the cool silky blades of grass soothingly tickled between her fingers. It was a peculiar day. She could feel it in her core. But the sun, the grass, the soft summer breeze…she was even convinced that butterflies were fluttering not too far above her overflowing golden locks. Almost as if she were part of a stereotypical photo on an album cover promoting some form of flower power, guitar pluckin’, smooth rhyming style of music in a decade where the world was made in Polaroid.
Posted by Unknown at 13:52