Dean Martin – My Woman, My Woman, My Wife
The first time I really heard this song, it wasn’t on an old console hi-fi, nor in some gleaming, curated…
The first time I really heard this song, it wasn’t on an old console hi-fi, nor in some gleaming, curated…
The needle drops. A dry, crisp acoustic guitar strums a rhythmic foundation, a sound immediately alien to the sprawling, electrified…
The world outside the glass had dissolved into a monochrome study of slate and silver. I remember the late-night drive,…
The night was impossibly dark, cut only by the smear of neon across a rain-slicked highway sign. This is the…
The air in the room is heavy and still, the kind of quiet that only descends late at night after…
The air was humid, thick with the smell of old vinyl and ozone, the kind of stillness that precedes a…
The hour is late. The street outside is slick with the recent memory of rain. The air in the room,…
The memory is tactile: a long, straight road, the kind of mid-century highway ribboning through the American Midwest, endless under…
It is the hour of the dim café, a moment when the afternoon light has softened into a weary, amber…
The air in the studio was heavy, thick with the scent of hot wiring, stale cigarette smoke, and the faint…