- Uncategorized
- 14 Dec 05
PUBLIC ENEMY
the village, dublin
This gig was always a mouth-watering prospect – one of the greatest groups of all time, with a full line-up, playing one of the most intimate venues in the city. As expected, it turns out to be a superb performance: an awesome collision of thumping bass-lines, crunching hip-hop beats, chaotic samples and funked-up wah-wah guitar, all underpinned by an incredibly powerful political message.
Bono once credited Public Enemy as being one of the groups who inspired U2’s dramatic sonic overhaul on Achtung Baby, saying “You stick on a Public Enemy record and it sounds like the end of the world!” He wasn’t wrong. The opening half-hour or so of tonight’s show most closely resembles a full-scale anti-globalisation riot, with blaring takes on the likes of ‘Welcome To The Terrordome’ and ‘Bring The Noise’ interspersed with blasts of raging anti-establishment invective.
Those “Fuck George Bush” and “Fuck Tony Blair” statements arrive thick and fast, and, refreshingly, Rudy Giuliani also gets a bashing – a timely reminder that before he was an infallible saint who walks on water, the former NY mayor was a right-wing basket case whose “zero tolerance” law and order views would make Michael McDowell look like a tree-hugging hippie peacenik.
Things take a bit of a nose-dive at the half-way point, with the band falling prey to what’s technically known as “arsing around.”
Thankfully, Flava Flav’s magnificent solo take on ‘911 Is A Joke’ gets the show back on the road, before superb versions of ‘He Got Game’ (the group’s contribution to Spike Lee’s movie of the same name, which brilliantly samples Buffalo Springfield’s ‘For What It’s Worth’), ‘Give It Up’ and an absolutely sensational, extended ‘Fight The Power’ (which finds Flav Flav climbing the speakers to touch hands with those on the balcony) bring us to the encore.
They return to perform a pulverising ‘She Watch Channel Zero’, after which Flava Flav delivers a soliloquy so intensely humanistic one feels like uttering “Amen" in its aftermath.
They once sang ‘Don’t believe the hype’. Well – in the words of one Samuel L. Jackson – believe it now motherfucker.
PAUL NOLAN
Bob Dylan
the point, dublin
Lest we forget, for a long time there most of us Dylan-ites were glad just to see the man could get his boots on of a morning, but post Chronicles, the stakes have been upped. Yes, arthritis has confined him to the piano (visions on the old Joanna, if you will), and the voice is ragged (what did you expect, Pavarotti?), but he’s very much plugged into his own back catalogue. And other people’s too: he’s been prone to opening with Link Wray’s ‘Rumble’ of late, and the Brixton Academy show saw him encore with a stab at ‘London Calling’. So we can only conclude that the folk here for a second sold out Point date – cheese and wine ladies in furs rubbing shoulders with homeless looking dudes discussing set-lists – are not merely paying their respects to the don while he can still stand, but on the off chance he might actually toss off something transcendental for the last night of the tour.
And whaddya know, he pulls it off maybe a half dozen times over the course of a 105-minute show.
The auguries are auspicious, if eccentric: no support, no piped music other than the muted strains of ‘Fanfare For The Common Man’, and an intro so over-the-top it has to be a piss-take (“Ladies and gentlemen, the voice of the 60s counterculture, rock’s poet laureate who receded into drug addled haze, found God etc… would you please welcome Columbia recording artist Bob Dylan!”).
The band file on and kick into ‘Drifter’s Escape’ like a superior Louisiana swamp blues combo, but Bob sounds fucking great – gravel-y, road-worn, lived in. They hit the first peak on the next one, ‘Senor (Tales Of Yankee Power)’, a nightmare odyssey south of everybody’s borders, with a vocal at once jazzy and sardonic. The rest of the set veers from the solid-but-not-inspired (‘It’s Alright Ma’, ‘Every Grain Of Sand’) to the surprisingly delicate and lovely (‘Love Minus Zero/No Limit’, ‘Boots Of Spanish Leather’) to the absolutely barnstorming (a wild and fiery ‘High Water (For Charley Patton)’ with blistering banjo break from Donnie Herron).
But the real stolen moment is ‘Visions Of Johanna’. Against a starry backdrop, Bob lulls us with this hushed surrealist roominghouse hymn, and the silenced rabble swoon. There follows a rollicking ‘Highway 61 Revisited’, and for a finale, ‘All Along The Watchtower’ delivered as a live-feed satellite dispatch from the opening moments of the apocalypse.
Jeez, as the man said, I can’t find ma knees.
Peter Murphy
ANTONY AND THE JOHNSONS
vicar street, dublin
It’s post-Mercury alright. Any notions that Antony And The Johnsons might somehow retain their underground aura are put well and truly to bed. Tonight the general age profile at Vicar Street puts one in mind of a tea-party thrown in honour of Daniel O’Donnell. These are the folks who heard I Am A Bird Now at suburban dinner parties. And they’re completely unschooled in modern rock concert etiquette.
No, we don’t clap ourselves when we recognise the opening bars of the single. We’re far too cool for that sort of thing nowadays. Inevitably – for shame – longer standing fans and well-wishers descend to the same oikish level. Hurrah for me! I’m whooping and hollering because I know he’s about to play ‘I Fell In Love With A Dead Boy’ from the Durtro CD.
Fey, as opposed to camp, in a great lumbering frame, there’s absolutely nothing conclusive about Mr.Hegarty. He seems to exist just outside everything; neither masculine nor feminine, of mixed nationality, he occupies such an uncertain space, you wouldn’t blink were he to suddenly transform into a butterfly. Or a starfish for that matter.
His songs speak with the wistfulness of an eternal outsider and the hopeless romance such an acute condition engenders. But maybe, just maybe, I’ve got this all twisted around. Despite Hegarty’s personal appearance, which one would hesitate to describe as ‘groomed’, it never feels like you’re in the presence of someone who used to be class weirdo. He is, throughout, pleasant company, seemingly untroubled by anything at all.
I hardly need to say that the performance was impeccable and beautiful and melancholic. The arrangements familiar from the recordings – elegant, uncluttered, designed purely in service of his otherworldly voice and stormy piano work – are perfectly replicated. As a medium for others, Hegarty proves exceptional, investing Moondog’s ‘Always A Loneliness’ with a sublime spookiness. Looking around at the resolutely middle class crowd, you realise how poetic it is that they dig it. That they’re listening to Moondog. That they hear darksome, sadomasochistic ballads like ‘Cripple And Starfish’ and find them beautiful. That there’s aching gender confusion coming from the stereo beside the cocktail cabinet. Antony Hegarty wears the mass adulation well. He belongs here. For one night only bandwagons are cool. Don’t ever quote me.
tara brady
Advertisement
ROSIE THOMAS
crawdaddy
Oh, the trials and tribulations of the smaller artiste playing the smaller venue. The gremlins are out in force and everything – the transformer, the computer, the keyboards – is imploding or exploding or doing something that it shouldn’t be doing. Happily, Rosie Thomas, perfect and outrageously cute, is on hand to turn all the fuck-ups into a Spinal Tap comedy, offering all kinds of delightful, nonsensical witterings and bad jokes (that one about George Bush and the Brazilians) to fill the gaps left by technical failure, in her tiny munchkin speaking voice. Like Antony Hegarty, it’s difficult to square the circle; that helium squeak with her gorgeous, aching vocals. Since When We Were Small, her 2001 debut on Subpop records, Rosie Thomas’ highly feminised, deeply personal musings on heartbreak, romance and rejection have frequently brought comparison with Lucinda Williams and a million other alt-country babes. But while Ms. Thomas can occasionally fraternise with the boys at truck-stops, there’s but two vaguely twanging guitar sounds tonight. Instead, despite all the glitches, we get the full wall of sound from the band – grand electronic strings, lush piano work and gutsy bass with Rosie’s voice – candyfloss sweet yet imposing – doing everything required from a woman who would be Karen Carpenter. There are ladies on the floor swaying with their eyes closed and moving their arms in a manner that can only be described as ‘free-spirited’, but it’s that sort of gig alright. It’s a girl thing. Less earthy than Lucinda, the Rosie experience is more like a poetic and broken-hearted schoolgirl’s journal than a tour of the trailer park. It’s about not being reciprocated in love, about being dumped for some bitch who really is only interested in having a sailboat in the backyard (‘Farewell’). By the time we get to ‘October’, (“And give her your coat when she is cold/ Tell her you’d miss her when you’re close enough to kiss her/ And that you’d walk a thousand miles to tell her so”) I’m a sobbing wreck. Bravo.
tara brady
PUBLIC ENEMY
the village, dublin
This gig was always a mouth-watering prospect – one of the greatest groups of all time, with a full line-up, playing one of the most intimate venues in the city. As expected, it turns out to be a superb performance: an awesome collision of thumping bass-lines, crunching hip-hop beats, chaotic samples and funked-up wah-wah guitar, all underpinned by an incredibly powerful political message.
Bono once credited Public Enemy as being one of the groups who inspired U2’s dramatic sonic overhaul on Achtung Baby, saying “You stick on a Public Enemy record and it sounds like the end of the world!” He wasn’t wrong. The opening half-hour or so of tonight’s show most closely resembles a full-scale anti-globalisation riot, with blaring takes on the likes of ‘Welcome To The Terrordome’ and ‘Bring The Noise’ interspersed with blasts of raging anti-establishment invective.
Those “Fuck George Bush” and “Fuck Tony Blair” statements arrive thick and fast, and, refreshingly, Rudy Giuliani also gets a bashing – a timely reminder that before he was an infallible saint who walks on water, the former NY mayor was a right-wing basket case whose “zero tolerance” law and order views would make Michael McDowell look like a tree-hugging hippie peacenik.
Things take a bit of a nose-dive at the half-way point, with the band falling prey to what’s technically known as “arsing around.”
Thankfully, Flava Flav’s magnificent solo take on ‘911 Is A Joke’ gets the show back on the road, before superb versions of ‘He Got Game’ (the group’s contribution to Spike Lee’s movie of the same name, which brilliantly samples Buffalo Springfield’s ‘For What It’s Worth’), ‘Give It Up’ and an absolutely sensational, extended ‘Fight The Power’ (which finds Flav Flav climbing the speakers to touch hands with those on the balcony) bring us to the encore.
They return to perform a pulverising ‘She Watch Channel Zero’, after which Flava Flav delivers a soliloquy so intensely humanistic one feels like uttering “Amen" in its aftermath.
They once sang ‘Don’t believe the hype’. Well – in the words of one Samuel L. Jackson – believe it now motherfucker.
PAUL NOLAN
Bob Dylan
the point, dublin
Lest we forget, for a long time there most of us Dylan-ites were glad just to see the man could get his boots on of a morning, but post Chronicles, the stakes have been upped. Yes, arthritis has confined him to the piano (visions on the old Joanna, if you will), and the voice is ragged (what did you expect, Pavarotti?), but he’s very much plugged into his own back catalogue. And other people’s too: he’s been prone to opening with Link Wray’s ‘Rumble’ of late, and the Brixton Academy show saw him encore with a stab at ‘London Calling’. So we can only conclude that the folk here for a second sold out Point date – cheese and wine ladies in furs rubbing shoulders with homeless looking dudes discussing set-lists – are not merely paying their respects to the don while he can still stand, but on the off chance he might actually toss off something transcendental for the last night of the tour.
And whaddya know, he pulls it off maybe a half dozen times over the course of a 105-minute show.
The auguries are auspicious, if eccentric: no support, no piped music other than the muted strains of ‘Fanfare For The Common Man’, and an intro so over-the-top it has to be a piss-take (“Ladies and gentlemen, the voice of the 60s counterculture, rock’s poet laureate who receded into drug addled haze, found God etc… would you please welcome Columbia recording artist Bob Dylan!”).
The band file on and kick into ‘Drifter’s Escape’ like a superior Louisiana swamp blues combo, but Bob sounds fucking great – gravel-y, road-worn, lived in. They hit the first peak on the next one, ‘Senor (Tales Of Yankee Power)’, a nightmare odyssey south of everybody’s borders, with a vocal at once jazzy and sardonic. The rest of the set veers from the solid-but-not-inspired (‘It’s Alright Ma’, ‘Every Grain Of Sand’) to the surprisingly delicate and lovely (‘Love Minus Zero/No Limit’, ‘Boots Of Spanish Leather’) to the absolutely barnstorming (a wild and fiery ‘High Water (For Charley Patton)’ with blistering banjo break from Donnie Herron).
But the real stolen moment is ‘Visions Of Johanna’. Against a starry backdrop, Bob lulls us with this hushed surrealist roominghouse hymn, and the silenced rabble swoon. There follows a rollicking ‘Highway 61 Revisited’, and for a finale, ‘All Along The Watchtower’ delivered as a live-feed satellite dispatch from the opening moments of the apocalypse.
Jeez, as the man said, I can’t find ma knees.
Peter Murphy
ANTONY AND THE JOHNSONS
vicar street, dublin
It’s post-Mercury alright. Any notions that Antony And The Johnsons might somehow retain their underground aura are put well and truly to bed. Tonight the general age profile at Vicar Street puts one in mind of a tea-party thrown in honour of Daniel O’Donnell. These are the folks who heard I Am A Bird Now at suburban dinner parties. And they’re completely unschooled in modern rock concert etiquette.
No, we don’t clap ourselves when we recognise the opening bars of the single. We’re far too cool for that sort of thing nowadays. Inevitably – for shame – longer standing fans and well-wishers descend to the same oikish level. Hurrah for me! I’m whooping and hollering because I know he’s about to play ‘I Fell In Love With A Dead Boy’ from the Durtro CD.
Fey, as opposed to camp, in a great lumbering frame, there’s absolutely nothing conclusive about Mr.Hegarty. He seems to exist just outside everything; neither masculine nor feminine, of mixed nationality, he occupies such an uncertain space, you wouldn’t blink were he to suddenly transform into a butterfly. Or a starfish for that matter.
His songs speak with the wistfulness of an eternal outsider and the hopeless romance such an acute condition engenders. But maybe, just maybe, I’ve got this all twisted around. Despite Hegarty’s personal appearance, which one would hesitate to describe as ‘groomed’, it never feels like you’re in the presence of someone who used to be class weirdo. He is, throughout, pleasant company, seemingly untroubled by anything at all.
I hardly need to say that the performance was impeccable and beautiful and melancholic. The arrangements familiar from the recordings – elegant, uncluttered, designed purely in service of his otherworldly voice and stormy piano work – are perfectly replicated. As a medium for others, Hegarty proves exceptional, investing Moondog’s ‘Always A Loneliness’ with a sublime spookiness. Looking around at the resolutely middle class crowd, you realise how poetic it is that they dig it. That they’re listening to Moondog. That they hear darksome, sadomasochistic ballads like ‘Cripple And Starfish’ and find them beautiful. That there’s aching gender confusion coming from the stereo beside the cocktail cabinet. Antony Hegarty wears the mass adulation well. He belongs here. For one night only bandwagons are cool. Don’t ever quote me.
tara brady
ROSIE THOMAS
crawdaddy
Advertisement
Oh, the trials and tribulations of the smaller artiste playing the smaller venue. The gremlins are out in force and everything – the transformer, the computer, the keyboards – is imploding or exploding or doing something that it shouldn’t be doing. Happily, Rosie Thomas, perfect and outrageously cute, is on hand to turn all the fuck-ups into a Spinal Tap comedy, offering all kinds of delightful, nonsensical witterings and bad jokes (that one about George Bush and the Brazilians) to fill the gaps left by technical failure, in her tiny munchkin speaking voice. Like Antony Hegarty, it’s difficult to square the circle; that helium squeak with her gorgeous, aching vocals. Since When We Were Small, her 2001 debut on Subpop records, Rosie Thomas’ highly feminised, deeply personal musings on heartbreak, romance and rejection have frequently brought comparison with Lucinda Williams and a million other alt-country babes. But while Ms. Thomas can occasionally fraternise with the boys at truck-stops, there’s but two vaguely twanging guitar sounds tonight. Instead, despite all the glitches, we get the full wall of sound from the band – grand electronic strings, lush piano work and gutsy bass with Rosie’s voice – candyfloss sweet yet imposing – doing everything required from a woman who would be Karen Carpenter. There are ladies on the floor swaying with their eyes closed and moving their arms in a manner that can only be described as ‘free-spirited’, but it’s that sort of gig alright. It’s a girl thing. Less earthy than Lucinda, the Rosie experience is more like a poetic and broken-hearted schoolgirl’s journal than a tour of the trailer park. It’s about not being reciprocated in love, about being dumped for some bitch who really is only interested in having a sailboat in the backyard (‘Farewell’). By the time we get to ‘October’, (“And give her your coat when she is cold/ Tell her you’d miss her when you’re close enough to kiss her/ And that you’d walk a thousand miles to tell her so”) I’m a sobbing wreck. Bravo.
tara brady
PUBLIC ENEMY
the village, dublin
This gig was always a mouth-watering prospect – one of the greatest groups of all time, with a full line-up, playing one of the most intimate venues in the city. As expected, it turns out to be a superb performance: an awesome collision of thumping bass-lines, crunching hip-hop beats, chaotic samples and funked-up wah-wah guitar, all underpinned by an incredibly powerful political message.
Bono once credited Public Enemy as being one of the groups who inspired U2’s dramatic sonic overhaul on Achtung Baby, saying “You stick on a Public Enemy record and it sounds like the end of the world!” He wasn’t wrong. The opening half-hour or so of tonight’s show most closely resembles a full-scale anti-globalisation riot, with blaring takes on the likes of ‘Welcome To The Terrordome’ and ‘Bring The Noise’ interspersed with blasts of raging anti-establishment invective.
Those “Fuck George Bush” and “Fuck Tony Blair” statements arrive thick and fast, and, refreshingly, Rudy Giuliani also gets a bashing – a timely reminder that before he was an infallible saint who walks on water, the former NY mayor was a right-wing basket case whose “zero tolerance” law and order views would make Michael McDowell look like a tree-hugging hippie peacenik.
Things take a bit of a nose-dive at the half-way point, with the band falling prey to what’s technically known as “arsing around.”
Thankfully, Flava Flav’s magnificent solo take on ‘911 Is A Joke’ gets the show back on the road, before superb versions of ‘He Got Game’ (the group’s contribution to Spike Lee’s movie of the same name, which brilliantly samples Buffalo Springfield’s ‘For What It’s Worth’), ‘Give It Up’ and an absolutely sensational, extended ‘Fight The Power’ (which finds Flav Flav climbing the speakers to touch hands with those on the balcony) bring us to the encore.
They return to perform a pulverising ‘She Watch Channel Zero’, after which Flava Flav delivers a soliloquy so intensely humanistic one feels like uttering “Amen" in its aftermath.
They once sang ‘Don’t believe the hype’. Well – in the words of one Samuel L. Jackson – believe it now motherfucker.
PAUL NOLAN
Bob Dylan
the point, dublin
Lest we forget, for a long time there most of us Dylan-ites were glad just to see the man could get his boots on of a morning, but post Chronicles, the stakes have been upped. Yes, arthritis has confined him to the piano (visions on the old Joanna, if you will), and the voice is ragged (what did you expect, Pavarotti?), but he’s very much plugged into his own back catalogue. And other people’s too: he’s been prone to opening with Link Wray’s ‘Rumble’ of late, and the Brixton Academy show saw him encore with a stab at ‘London Calling’. So we can only conclude that the folk here for a second sold out Point date – cheese and wine ladies in furs rubbing shoulders with homeless looking dudes discussing set-lists – are not merely paying their respects to the don while he can still stand, but on the off chance he might actually toss off something transcendental for the last night of the tour.
And whaddya know, he pulls it off maybe a half dozen times over the course of a 105-minute show.
The auguries are auspicious, if eccentric: no support, no piped music other than the muted strains of ‘Fanfare For The Common Man’, and an intro so over-the-top it has to be a piss-take (“Ladies and gentlemen, the voice of the 60s counterculture, rock’s poet laureate who receded into drug addled haze, found God etc… would you please welcome Columbia recording artist Bob Dylan!”).
The band file on and kick into ‘Drifter’s Escape’ like a superior Louisiana swamp blues combo, but Bob sounds fucking great – gravel-y, road-worn, lived in. They hit the first peak on the next one, ‘Senor (Tales Of Yankee Power)’, a nightmare odyssey south of everybody’s borders, with a vocal at once jazzy and sardonic. The rest of the set veers from the solid-but-not-inspired (‘It’s Alright Ma’, ‘Every Grain Of Sand’) to the surprisingly delicate and lovely (‘Love Minus Zero/No Limit’, ‘Boots Of Spanish Leather’) to the absolutely barnstorming (a wild and fiery ‘High Water (For Charley Patton)’ with blistering banjo break from Donnie Herron).
But the real stolen moment is ‘Visions Of Johanna’. Against a starry backdrop, Bob lulls us with this hushed surrealist roominghouse hymn, and the silenced rabble swoon. There follows a rollicking ‘Highway 61 Revisited’, and for a finale, ‘All Along The Watchtower’ delivered as a live-feed satellite dispatch from the opening moments of the apocalypse.
Jeez, as the man said, I can’t find ma knees.
Peter Murphy
ANTONY AND THE JOHNSONS
vicar street, dublin
It’s post-Mercury alright. Any notions that Antony And The Johnsons might somehow retain their underground aura are put well and truly to bed. Tonight the general age profile at Vicar Street puts one in mind of a tea-party thrown in honour of Daniel O’Donnell. These are the folks who heard I Am A Bird Now at suburban dinner parties. And they’re completely unschooled in modern rock concert etiquette.
No, we don’t clap ourselves when we recognise the opening bars of the single. We’re far too cool for that sort of thing nowadays. Inevitably – for shame – longer standing fans and well-wishers descend to the same oikish level. Hurrah for me! I’m whooping and hollering because I know he’s about to play ‘I Fell In Love With A Dead Boy’ from the Durtro CD.
Fey, as opposed to camp, in a great lumbering frame, there’s absolutely nothing conclusive about Mr.Hegarty. He seems to exist just outside everything; neither masculine nor feminine, of mixed nationality, he occupies such an uncertain space, you wouldn’t blink were he to suddenly transform into a butterfly. Or a starfish for that matter.
His songs speak with the wistfulness of an eternal outsider and the hopeless romance such an acute condition engenders. But maybe, just maybe, I’ve got this all twisted around. Despite Hegarty’s personal appearance, which one would hesitate to describe as ‘groomed’, it never feels like you’re in the presence of someone who used to be class weirdo. He is, throughout, pleasant company, seemingly untroubled by anything at all.
I hardly need to say that the performance was impeccable and beautiful and melancholic. The arrangements familiar from the recordings – elegant, uncluttered, designed purely in service of his otherworldly voice and stormy piano work – are perfectly replicated. As a medium for others, Hegarty proves exceptional, investing Moondog’s ‘Always A Loneliness’ with a sublime spookiness. Looking around at the resolutely middle class crowd, you realise how poetic it is that they dig it. That they’re listening to Moondog. That they hear darksome, sadomasochistic ballads like ‘Cripple And Starfish’ and find them beautiful. That there’s aching gender confusion coming from the stereo beside the cocktail cabinet. Antony Hegarty wears the mass adulation well. He belongs here. For one night only bandwagons are cool. Don’t ever quote me.
tara brady
ROSIE THOMAS
crawdaddy
Oh, the trials and tribulations of the smaller artiste playing the smaller venue. The gremlins are out in force and everything – the transformer, the computer, the keyboards – is imploding or exploding or doing something that it shouldn’t be doing. Happily, Rosie Thomas, perfect and outrageously cute, is on hand to turn all the fuck-ups into a Spinal Tap comedy, offering all kinds of delightful, nonsensical witterings and bad jokes (that one about George Bush and the Brazilians) to fill the gaps left by technical failure, in her tiny munchkin speaking voice. Like Antony Hegarty, it’s difficult to square the circle; that helium squeak with her gorgeous, aching vocals. Since When We Were Small, her 2001 debut on Subpop records, Rosie Thomas’ highly feminised, deeply personal musings on heartbreak, romance and rejection have frequently brought comparison with Lucinda Williams and a million other alt-country babes. But while Ms. Thomas can occasionally fraternise with the boys at truck-stops, there’s but two vaguely twanging guitar sounds tonight. Instead, despite all the glitches, we get the full wall of sound from the band – grand electronic strings, lush piano work and gutsy bass with Rosie’s voice – candyfloss sweet yet imposing – doing everything required from a woman who would be Karen Carpenter. There are ladies on the floor swaying with their eyes closed and moving their arms in a manner that can only be described as ‘free-spirited’, but it’s that sort of gig alright. It’s a girl thing. Less earthy than Lucinda, the Rosie experience is more like a poetic and broken-hearted schoolgirl’s journal than a tour of the trailer park. It’s about not being reciprocated in love, about being dumped for some bitch who really is only interested in having a sailboat in the backyard (‘Farewell’). By the time we get to ‘October’, (“And give her your coat when she is cold/ Tell her you’d miss her when you’re close enough to kiss her/ And that you’d walk a thousand miles to tell her so”) I’m a sobbing wreck. Bravo.
tara brady