Rain and Dead Pigeons

It rained last night, although “rain” isn’t really the right word. A thundering torrent of water, bucketing down by the cubic kilometre, as though the gods had scooped up a fair portion of the eastern Atlantic and dumped it directly onto my part of London. The kind of rain to which a second’s exposure would leave you as helpless and shivering as a newborn foal. The kind of rain that made it tough to watch the movie thanks to the noise of the coin-sized drops clattering on the windows (“Sunset Boulevard”, since you ask).

And what’s more, the rain left behind a gift. Not puddles or a flood, but a dead bird on the roof, just out of reach, which will need to be poked and coaxed to fall two floors onto hard paving stone in a crack and a splat. That’s going to be fun to clear up.

In light of all this, the only viable option is to play some old, joyous music. The kind of song that drank from the well of blues and rock and roll and inhaled a magic elixir to send it spinning into the infinite ether of Goddamn fine music.

Take it away, Bo.

MP3: Heart-O-Matic Love by Bo Diddley

The Bo Diddley Store

Note: Why the hell is it nearly impossible to buy this guy’s early recordings? Given that they are 50+ years old now, you’d think someone would package them up and sell them at a decent price, rather than the ridiculous £40 being asked. Crazy. And what’s with the 5,000 copy limited editions? And the record industry wonders why everyone’s downloading now. We’re the consumers, remember? Sell us what we want at a reasonable price and we’ll buy it.