You Only Love Yourself

It was night and we didn’t know it. For all we knew, it could have been 1924. Or the Left Bank.

As it turns out, you don’t need very much sleep to live, even less to make a record. So there we were, banging pots and pans and all things that jingle jangle straight through the early hours of morning. “Rich feathercats with no money” said Hemingway. He was probably right, but God knows why. Probably because, unlike us, he actually knew what he was doing.

It was night and we were happy. We saw green and blue, and Coltrane had a few things to say about all of that, so we listened. But if you want to know the truth, he very well may have been out of his mind.

What came next was a mess of a thing: colours in sound, sounds in motion. A crash of cymbals in 6/8 time, a chasing of strings who would not sit still, a piano out of tune.

It was night and something had been born. Oh the monster it was! It made your heart ache for places you’ve never seen and probably never will. For a moment, you forgot-

It happened to us and it was ours for awhile; but it’s about time we gave it to the world.

We call it Carrousel.