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(Gordon Hunter reflects on his oft extreme emotions)
new wave indie rock britp
Psycholiterate New Wave Rock
Flashback to 1999: Young piano virtuoso Gordon Hunter is on scholarship at the Guildhall School of Music in his native England. A double major in performance and composition, he is already being hailed as modern classical music’s next “big thing.” It was quite the surprise, then, that in his first solo piano recital, he departed from his anticipated program of Chopin Etudes by launching into a free-form jazz improvisation based on several Chopin motifs. Gordy’s behavior grew more eccentric, as he began to embrace rock, soul, and particularly 80’s new wave music, incorporating stylistic elements of all into his compositions, which were now deemed highly controversial. Fast forward to present day: Gordon Hunter is still the same precocious, rebellious youth, only now he has a few new tricks up his sleeves. Upon dropping out of college in 2001, Hunter relocated to the States, settling in Hartford, CT, where he soon became proficient at guitar, bass, and a wide array of synthesizers. It was in Hartford that Hunter formed Gordon Hunter & the Wandering Rocks, a unique mix of performance art, catchy retro new wave rock stylings, and interpretive literature. Based on a series of vignettes written by Hunter in which he envisions himself as a middle-aged man in the midst of a midlife crisis, the band, which features the always charismatic Hunter on several instruments as well as lead vocals, provides the musical backdrop to this piece of interpretive literature. However, you don’t need an English degree to appreciate Gordon Hunter & The Wandering Rocks; the well-crafted, danceable songs are instantly memorable and the sheer uniqueness of the stage show is enough to provoke any music lover’s interest.
Song Info
Charts
Peak #248
Peak in subgenre #80
Author
Gordon Hunter & The Wandering Rocks
Rights
2004
Uploaded
June 28, 2004
Track Files
MP3
MP3 2.7 MB 128 kbps 0:00
Story behind the song
'Tis like the sun and the moon, both at once. Some days, indescribably happy. The time in the square when I dropped my billfold and the old woman with the beige coat followed me, panting, short legs furiously pedaling the ground, just to return it, and in her eyes you could see she felt such a virtuous satisfaction and it nearly brought a tear to my eye. 'Twas a fleeting moment that encapsulated a lifetime of happiness, a moment never to be replicated again for me, this I know. Even if I won at Epsom, won enough to buy Martha that necklace and move out into the country, that's a different, material happiness. I've known true happiness, if but for an instant. Other days feel like the world is suffocating me from the moment I wake. Cloudy, foggy days, usually. All of winter, nearly. There is no love in winter, no amicable sunny embraces, just icy rejections, cold air mocking you every step, racing to the tram holding your overcoat shut. Perhaps around the time Mum died--absolute worst then. Every year a constant reminder---suppose it's for the better, I mustn't forget her and the way she'd fix me tea and bring me books when I was ill. It hurts to remember, though---gives me that dry, empty feeling in the back of my throat, realizing that I'm on my own. Feels like I'm shut out of the house sometimes---almost makes me angry at them, departing so early. Irrational, of course, but I can't help that.
Lyrics
perennial gloom melts away without warning in an empty beige room a subtle wafting of mo(u)rning but it's still no relief for i know it's but a matter of time im spiraling down im spiraling down above the sun beneath the moon ill sail my lone hot air balloon bittersweet songs spin in my head like a snow globe in a sea full of wrongs kept alive on my own smoke
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