Four in the morning. The last train is long gone and the night bus isn’t going your way. The streets glisten with the remains of last nights rain and a sheen of the incoming dawn’s dew. There’s a cold moon lighting up a cold clear sky. It’s going to be a long walk home.
But you don’t care! However hard the pavement beneath your feet it might as well be a deep pile carpet. Because you have been dancing for hours and hours in the club to the sounds of Memphis, Detroit, Philadelphia and Miami. You are floating, floating – almost flying home.
As you pace out the miles you relive the sounds of the records that held you enthralled; that lifted your heart and spirits so that a dark dank tubercular winter evening in England became a glimpse of Eden.
Listening, as loud as you dare, to those records…
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