Caroline Says brisk walk. She’s to accompany the circular issues in your thoughts, such is the hi-hat, the picked strings that continues double speed or more, hand in hand with every refrained frail and contained, breathy, girlish voice, huffing then cooing “streetlights” for one, “talking to the moon” for another, “pillow” for one, “God knows” for another; an evening prowl, a morning mount, whatever port of pavement you encounter on your way, or bedroom windows rained, the sort of guitar and/or drum and/or bass make-out that sinks into your shoes with unafraid reoccurrence, and lyrics of conviction and independence to bring its steady purpose to your world-based ventures, where those shoes get filled:
Two pounds said the bus driver, and I looked in my wallet for two pounds. Can I sit here I said, on the top deck, and I looked at the seat until I was sat on it with enough of my back on the backrest, my eyes now reverting to the front of the bus.
I am rocking and digressing into an imaginary bus.
And sides of eyes from all the bus people around me were felt on my head. And the same happened when I get up to leave, I put my arm on the bannister, walk down to the lower deck, everyone’s glancing to see who’s getting off here, what shoes I’m wearing, what style my hair, what shoes I’ve on, Thankyou I say to the bus driver, or Cheers, or Thanks, I can’t remember. And the wet pavement lands my breaking soles, laceless tongues, hanging out with little dignity. But I still walk, to wherever I go, the city opening up in front of me… and distant hills.
And, ah, every step on this album is a beautiful thing. Graced truly with fantastic lyrics that are instantly connectable with the sombre side of human heads, seemingly especially mine, especially yours, especially everyone’s sombre side! Some of the fantastic stuff said above, those songs that fantastically walk along briskly, Rock & Roll, bounding off some undeniable backbone. The words she sings fall correctly into all the Freedom you can master, where songs open a door; if Caroline Says were a door, she’d have a sturdy handle Iron, painted white wooden and it would open on to the exact train you wanted to get all along, you’d either get a dusty window seat (like the picture a few posts below) or end up having one of those tentative heart-felt conversations with a stranger, with one leg hanging off the side, the persistent knocking wheels on rail-tracks recounting a background you couldn’t forget.
50,000,000 Elvis Presley Fans Can’t Be Wrong.