It’s a song through grainy sands: a sound of muffled clarity. You remember placing and clicking that tape into its deck, and who has forgotten such magic? None, I hope. When the song would play you’d hear everything. You heard sounds that weren’t ever present and you saw colours in mushy pixels, too, but you can’t do that anymore. But then there’s True Blue. The cloudless tune.
The consoling jangle* of rhythm guitar passes play through to its leading sister, sensitive in her approach to the riff, with an almost double-bass delivery. Pluck and boom and soft fizzle…
Swallowed and consumed drums swim in shallow pacing, but it can be felt, and the sound won’t move without it. All backing to the most present of voices. And what of such vocal impression? “I’m beggin’ you, please.” :53. To keep pace with a Ronette, when your own effort is distanced from the original, is to stand alone with strength. That quick-fire mouthed gun; the lip spit-shake chorus change of ‘true blue’ to ‘TCHUBLU!’ – it’s all a whipping paint brush, spurting fantastic and tragic colours on the soon-to-be canvas.
To be a singer is to surprise swoon, for there is no greater charm. True Blue, it belongs in the arms of the smaller fishes of the more focused ponds. It belongs to my arms and their own anxieties. Christ, I must be blunt, hear me out, for this song is majestic in its nature. [Buy.] [View.] [Glare (At).]
* Do you hear Christmas, too?
I tried to phrase this more eloquently but couldn’t: I think of ladyparts whenever I see the first quarter of this photo.
You appreciate, of course, that this was not my intention, rather a charming coincidence. This post is pink fleshed.