Winter, Tears, and the best people

2007-11-24 Aus Von christiankohl

It’s winter again though my calendar still tries to convince me otherwise. Winter means cold, wet, dark. It also means hot chocolate, cake, and heaps of cinnamon. Which more than makes up for dark & wet. Not sure about the cold yet.

In the last couple of months I’ve been so busy I didn’t get around to writing regularly. I’ve also been so angry -work sucks- that I sometimes forgot to enjoy the beautiful things in life. But worst, I forgot to praise, praise, praise The Weakerthans. New album „Reunion Tour“ – buy it! Now! It’s fantastic. And they’re playing at the Lido (Kreuzberg) on Dec 4th (Tuesday). Be there or be dead.

I’ve been listening to Reunion Tour all morning. My girlfriend had to work early, I finished a stupid presentation for Monday and then I sat down and put the CD on repeat. And here’s the completely un-maleish (<-- not an English word, but looks kinda cool) confession: I nearly cried during Virtute the cat explains her departure. It’s probably the greatest song ever written. I know that I’ve said that about a couple of other Weakerthans songs before, most recently about A plea from a cat named Virtute. Which is probably the greatest song ever written. Which sort of leads to the obvious conclusion that The Weakerthans are simply the best band on this planet. And certainly amongst the nicest people, too. I’m so looking forward to seeing you next week!

Besides, they also have the best website of the world.

It had something to do with the rain leaching loamy dirt, and the way the back lane came alive—half moon whispered, „go.“ For a while I heard you missing steps in the street, and your anger, pleading in an uncertain key, singing the sound that you found for me. When the winter took the tips of my ears, I found this noisy home full of pigeons and places to hide, and when the voices die I emerge to watch abandoned machines waiting for their men to return. I remember the way I would wait for you to arrive with kibble and a box full of beer. How I’d scratch the empties, desperate to hear you make the sound that you found for me. How after scrapping with the ferals and the tabby, I’d let you brush my matted fur. How I’d knead into your chest while you were sleeping. Shallow breathing made me purr. But now I can’t remember the sound that you found for me.
(The Weakerthans: Virtute the Cat Explains Her Departure. Reunion Tour, Burning Heart: 2007.)