we are a cheap suit, we are a soup kitchen, we are a jam jar raised to the lips of a hipster sipping cocktails in some pale imitation gentrified joke. these pokey tales of failure, flavoured with sweet promise, curled around tongues tasting defeat as deep as a news anchor’s hot tub. the drunk girl on the bus attacks some crushed accomplice as we slip by all gold and red by the mad bread man pecked to pieces by the pigeons in the park. re-enacting the backstabbing of a best friend in front of a panel of industry big-dogs, while media power couples snog and hold hands under posters of post-war hollywood heartthrobs. yes, it can drift into something like a shopping channel at a wedding flirting with a chemical weapons expert. your music sounds like it’s made to be played in shopping arcades on bank holiday weekends - silly singer songwriters, writing rhymes that read like middle class fridge doors. and when god looks the other way, we’ll be playing babel fishh on cassette tape, running with scissors, standing naked at the window urinating on your parade. they said we looked fed up and bored and they were dead right of course. girl being sick in a limousine, lonely lad walks around room. what was i to do? it won’t matter come the morning. a glorious failure. a last blossom blown loose. the final tear, a tango, a sword fight. finding a scratchcard in a british heart foundation purchased blazer on a warm winter’s day. and here’s another song about me taking myself too seriously - throwing parting shots at lost children in supermarkets. and the river looked to be sleeping, so still and deep. the ruins of a resort town and ten foot advertising slogans over faces. you don’t work your job, your job works you. blah blah blithering idiot - fool’s errand.
Sometimes you come across an artist that is compelled to do what they do.
I appreciate the musicality and the arrangement and the artistry of the songs. He sings and plays like his life depends on it. I appreciate the humanity of the lyrics… Like reading Tortilla Flats, or watching Nobody’s Fool.
Ceschi is a bright star. I’m glad he’s loose in the world. oldtruck
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