Pale Rivers ‘Don’t Worry About Me’
I will always be a child to my parents; nothing more and nothing less. No matter how hard I try to screw things up (in therapeutic terms, this is an attention-seeking exercise) or indeed progress things either personally or professionally (same deal, but more in the context of trying to impress by way of ongoing/attempted over-achievement), I am both blessed and cursed to remain in this limbo land of formative development from which I may never leave. In the metaphorically-similar context of where I am sat right now – the tarmac of Heathrow Terminal 5, on the latest BA plane to fall victim to a fucky-uppy walkway jetty that won’t retract, meaning we are indeed stuck here and hence why I am talking to you lot – this means I have re-lived the oscillating patriarchy/matriarchy effects that I last experience around about Christmas time. I’m not allowed to have an opinion on complex topics such as why Girraffes, a tropical themed greasy spoon on the departure lounge concourse, won’t provide us with a non-blunt knife despite being aware of the obvious security issues that may ensue if we, y’know, doshed out machetes to punters in keeping with the given decor. And on the other hand, I’m definitely not allowed to pay for breakfast for my parents as a means to show that I can actually afford to do that shit right now, because, I suspect, the last grip of power into this man’s life of such financial courage may we’ll be lost by those who value it the most. Today’s inconsequential revelation is hereby soundtracked by a band from Cork and/or Tipperary, Ireland called Pale Rivers and the visuals for their song called Don’t Worry About Me. The PR (wuddup Ollie) tells me it is a hybrid between the quirky electronics of Alt J (lest we forget that it is impossible to describe a band that sounds like Alt J without referencing Alt J) and the somber, pensive, and often outrightly self-deprecating lyricism of The National. There’s a slacker vocal delivery that reminds the listener of waking up, hangover thudding, after a long night of trying to forget something that’s fucked you right off by any medicinal means deemed necessary and then realising the futility of such an act given all you’ve really achieved is, well, realising what an idiotic boob you were for this attempt. Let all cut noses fall from severed faces when blasting out this one.