Roosevelt’s Sea is the song of my summer. It will forever remind me of the sunny season — creeping into a groove that could accompany any spontaneous road-trip to the seaside.
Son of German city Cologne, Roosevelt takes you on a magical journey with innocently placed reverbed lyrics, dance orientated synths and unashamedly funk guitars all layered over the strongest of grooves. He plugs into the very reasons why I love music. Sea transports you to a beach where you dance under hazy purple skies — far from the reality of the cramped Camden boozer he has just delighted.
Roosevelt pulls all the strings to make even the most awkward amongst us dance, forgetting all social inhibitions and reminding us that life is good. The secrets of a perfect summer day have never been so obvious.
Forgive my ignorance but I’ve never heard of the Freemasons before. I was was vaguely aware of someone once saying there was a theory that the world was run by a few select, probably priviledged people in a secret club or something, but I wrote them off as one of those people I didnt want in my life anymore.
Anyways, so I was walking behind Covent Garden with my mate and I ask him what this building is. He says it’s the Freemasons Hall. I say what’s that? He tells me it’s a secret society. I say it doesnt really ooze secrecy given the fact it has the founders name in stone on the front and it’s the most conspicious building this side of Saint Pauls.
Basically, the way it looks is that there are these rich intelligent people who, over the years ‘get things done’. I’m still none the wiser to these things they have ‘got done’ as I would have thought the first port of call was to make it more secret. Maybe put a cloth over the building or something. Maybe not have the king Freemason’s identity on the secret headquarters front door or it may leave them open to cold calling. Also I hear they shout out their life confessions naked and bat each other on the arse with paddles. Now you’re just attracting attention. Secret my arse.
In Park Lane there is a shop that sells up market and expensive bannister rail stoppers. Fair enough really I suppose. Those with a posh enough bannister rail may indeed need a posh enough bannister rail stopper. I may like to add though that this is all they sell, and judging by the decor, they make a killing.
Now I’m not going to go on about how our society is ran by this type of self-indulgant corporate greed or that this business venture is pointless but I will say if your bannister rail stopper is a huge bust of Sir Isaac Newton or a giant iron fist then your house is too big, you have too much money to throw around and deserve to slide down your own bannister, legs akimbo and take the punishment.
To be honest too I can’t think of a situation where you’d be browsing in this shop let alone walking past and thinking: “You know what, I’m tired of the classic acorn bannister rail stopper I have, I was thinking about the sultans palace tower style, but I’ve just seen this absolutely glorious head of Queen Victoria. Everybody in the land will appreciate this as they ascend my old oak staircase.” It’s a different world isnt it. I sort of did like the giant fist though. Nothing says relentless corporate boss like a giant fist at the foot of the stair well.
Today on the crowded train I was eating a yoghurt. A petit felous as I know you wondering. Strawberry. It wasn’t bad actually, thanks for asking. No you can’t, buy your own, fuck off.
Now that made you feel slightly irritated with me didn’t it? Made you want to maybe insert the empty pot slowly, but forcefully into a certain oraphis of mine.
Well think how the guy felt next to me who was pissed off and covered in snow, when I got a big dollop of felous down his suit trousers. As it dropped we both watched it, then looked at each slowly. He didn’t say a thing. And I made it worse. I fairly quickly and accurately scooped it off his knee with my spoon and apologized quietly, bowing my head in shame for the rest of the journey. I don’t know why, but I licked the spoon afterwards.