small hours. 

Philamore Lincoln and Roy Wood have had my attention for a few months. 

Robert Smith non-famously once replied to the assertion “You can’t go wrong with Bowie” with a glib “No, you can go wrong with Bowie,” to a Boston radio DJ. 

Somehow here Bowie was able to dodge questionable 80s sounds and even 80s saxophone to capture a song that didn’t go wrong.  

I know when to go out, I know when to stay in. 

How in the world did I miss this until now???  Just someone tell me this. 

I forgot I had a blog.  Now that I remember this should be on it.  I instantly loved the way this song sounded the second I heard it. 

Enjoy Arts and Crafts time with Wild Arrows.  Go on a stop-motion walk through Brooklyn.  Spend some time with Mike as he brings you on a tour around the side streets and alley ways.  Learn about the dangers of the big city.  Everything you wanted to know about Brooklyn but were afraid to ask.  Just ask. 

I played with this woman a few years ago in Japan, Nikaidoh Kazumi.  Her songs are beautiful.  This is still one of my favorite recordings. 

Dear Tumblrbot,

My earliest memory is my father carrying me through the snow to our car.  He had been shoveling the car and sidewalk out of the snow.  He didn’t have a proper jacket on and his blazer was cold against my face.

I never get tired of this song.  Plus Five has been my bed time for the last few weeks.  There is another version floating around where they trot out a harp at the end, but this one gets the idea across. 

You will be safe with duct tape.

Hemlock branches burst and kill off all,

hopes pace, displaced, flowers flow out pollen paste.

The words your rights are written in are in lower case, then reshaped.

Potted plants are all need,

while you are stuck their hurt with wall painted obscene,

unclean,

weeds weave up a dead tree,

the letters the alphabet ruined then heated up your disease,

then repeat, wake the ghosts.

Radio signals reach then teach the untruth.

Fortified with calcium and no proof, mis-used.

Fills the air in a frequency that just doesn’t happen to be,

tightly around your neck in a noose.

Wake the Ghosts.

Sent out signals by old father Christmas’ troops, let loose,

and mourners march in quiet retreat nailing fact sheets to their feet,

they are missing those who did not leave and are still alive for them to see,

we introduce ourselves eternally in a farewell toast.

We are the silent living, they are the loud ghosts.