The customer lay on his front, head and back covered in sharp little needles. He breathed through the hole, the acupuncturist said goodbye. Listening to muzak from the Himalayans, he flexed the mind to Slow Motion. How many times had he played that song? The weightless key changes, basic beats and lulling chorus of it's counting, counting, counting mesmerised him. Something so elemental, so cleanly imagined, yet impenetrable, beyond specific meaning. A distant thought, babble language lost in harmony. An arch, a fall, stridency rising to the surface, overtaken by splintered submergence into repetition.
The patient lay on his back. A blond medical student smiled and inspected his stomach. Her legs were strained from hockey injury. Amongst the palpitations and percussion he could hear Scheherazade. Through clouds, a rainy shoreline, a building imprint of architecture, a frightened moan, as if the hand gently reached into the heart, throb of memory, shriek of dissonance. 'Now I'm going to check how you move,' she said with a wink. Tiptoes, heel to toe, then one foot in front of the other he walked out of the room.
Exceptionally beautiful and an exciting, emotionally charged actress; A Place In The Sun, Suddenly Last Summer, Who's Afraid Of Virginia Woolf, Secret Ceremony.
When your a bit down at the mouth it's always a good idea to put on Room On Fire. What Ever Happened is medicinal, makes you wanna dance, makes you feel anything is possible. Is This It has maybe been overplayed, First Impressions Of Earth is slightly bloated, but Room On Fire is still pretty fun. That tight angularity, Casablancas' drop-dead 'doing you a favour' delivery, a sense of casual decadence. Today I've been playing Angles which follows on from Casablancas' underrated, 80's new-wave indebted Phrazes For The Young. There ain't many killer songs, though it sustains a playful spirit of glacial intrigue. Blondie here, sweet Jesus, Thin Lizzy there. Steve Miller baby. Chiselled, densely woven, fine-tuned, everything defined with upmost care. And there's an intimate, delicately structured ballad, Call Me Back, which fractures the ebullient mood. Outside my window I can see the early bloom of spring.
Marianne Faithfull is a sharp cookie these days. Writing frank memoirs, refusing to share bottles of wine with interviewers, she's well-aware of her iconic status. Though it wasn't always like this. In the sixties she was determined to live as recklessly as the boys and was punished by the outdated system. So this lovely-looking, searching young woman turned to self-destruction. Her Ophelia is perfect; narcissistic, vulnerable and grimly compliant in her own downfall. The comeback was legendary, Broken English and Strange Weather remain haunting and emotive albums, she was croaky and cool, singing words of defiance and hurt regret.
I was talking to a wonderful painter. While ago. Playing an SYR in the background. He said, 'Ah, this reminds me of Stockhausen.' As an art teacher he'd played Stockhausen for the schoolchildren in his class and their work had gained freedom and courage. Lines became more spontaneous, colours more daring. 
Her voice was clear as water, elegant as a swan. Her lyrics were enticing and enigmatic, spellbound by hidden meaning; Tender Buttons, Investigate Witch Cults of the Radio Age.
Fresh scattershot time signatures, bellowed gutter surrealism, real wise, real wild. Tough old boot with a softer side, let's get down to it-these records are capable of expanding and simultaneously exploding your mind; Trout Mask Replica, Lick My Decals Off, Baby, Shiny Beast (Bat Chain Puller), Doc At The Radar Station.