Bewildering and delightful, how English names—biographical or geographical—might be pronounced: Featherstonhaugh and Cholmondeley for example. As for their spelling: a sort of exercise, for those with time to kill?
Whoever said Britain and America are two nations divided by a common language? “Common!” Poppycock and piffle. Anyone who’s lived an extended period in both lands will know: half-a-lifetime attempting to grasp and recall their differences? Not sufficient.
Imagine Londoners weary of Americans asking how to get to Lie-chester Square. Often I do, when hearing “I Something You”: though I wonder about
the lines: “In Leicester Square/it’s the place to be.” Mildly facetious, I suspect: but who knows what’s on Robyn’s mind.
Or in it. Those fortunate to have seen Robyn live—or familiar with Storefront Hitchcock—know: he possesses talents beyond guitar, lyrics, voice and harmonica. Not sure whether I wish more of his monologues were recorded. Hearing them only occasionally, they’re akin to a delicacy. You wouldn’t eat caviar every day. Nor century eggs, scrapple or lutefisk. (That’s a digression, not a critique.)
Extended CD versions of Fegmania! include a live version of “Heaven.” Which begins with a tale of lonely prospectors huddled around campfires, waiting for the floating prairie cathedral to arrive. An improvisational gift? Can’t imagine anyone laboriously scribbling out meta-Lewis-Carrol-via-Syd reveries, then memorizing and performing them.
Bewildering and delightful, how English names—biographical or geographical—might be pronounced: Featherstonhaugh and Cholmondeley for example. As for their spelling: a sort of exercise, for those with time to kill?
Whoever said Britain and America are two nations divided by a common language? “Common!” Poppycock and piffle. Anyone who’s lived an extended period in both lands will know: half-a-lifetime attempting to grasp and recall their differences? Not sufficient.
Imagine Londoners weary of Americans asking how to get to Lie-chester Square. Often I do, when hearing “I Something You”: though I wonder about the lines: “In Leicester Square/it’s the place to be.” Mildly facetious, I suspect: but who knows what’s on Robyn’s mind.
Or in it. Those fortunate to have seen Robyn live—or familiar with Storefront Hitchcock—know: he possesses talents beyond guitar, lyrics, voice and harmonica. Not sure whether I wish more of his monologues were recorded. Hearing them only occasionally, they’re akin to a delicacy. You wouldn’t eat caviar every day. Nor century eggs, scrapple or lutefisk. (That’s a digression, not a critique.)
Extended CD versions of Fegmania! include a live version of “Heaven.” Which begins with a tale of lonely prospectors huddled around campfires, waiting for the floating prairie cathedral to arrive. An improvisational gift? Can’t imagine anyone laboriously scribbling out meta-Lewis-Carrol-via-Syd reveries, then memorizing and performing them.