‘The calendar tells me summer is here. Shut The Front Door! It’s July 16, and I wore gloves when I dared to venture out last week. Despite the fact that Mother Nature obviously has her period, I’d like to devote this blog to a celebration of lyrical fluff. In the gleeful, desperately hopeful anticipation of bikinis and Breezers, BBQs and bonfires, I’d like to show how absolutely necessary lyrical fluff is. Because sometimes we don’t want an 8-course dinner, where every single ingredient is artfully weighed, measured, arranged and considered. Sometimes we just want a huge Patatje Oorlog, because nothing else hits the spot. And as one who loses sleep over the clever creation of lyrics, who aches over narrative style versus immediate impact, who pines for visual imagery and stellar storylines, I also happen to be the first in line at the Febo at 3.30 in the morning. Long live grease, salt, mayonnaise!
Hit it.
This is an all time favorite. Yeah, it’s dirty, but all the dirt is so cleverly arranged. Let’s see what happens when we scratch the surface:












