I spent some time this morning heading down to the Police Credit Union to sign up for a new account and found out I was missing the essential form, the Papa Smurf of forms, without which all my other forms were just so much twaddle. It was alright though, because I was in my car and listening to one of the few 5-star songs in my collection. Giz has been discussing a song a day over at his pad of milkiness, and while I’m not planning on doing this every day (I think I post enough crap as it is), I should be able to make time for the occasional bit of gushing.

So, the song.

Tom, get your plane right on time.
I know your part’ll go fine.
Fly down to Mexico.
Da-n-da-da-n-da-n-da-da and here I am,
The only living boy in New York.

And then Larry Knechtel’s Hammond organ glides in and Art Garfunkel layers about 8000 tracks of ethereal vocals like a convention of Lisa Gerrard impersonators, Paul Simon’s twelve-string begins walking and Hal Blaine’s snare starts crashing so hard you’d swear you can hear the plate reverb starting to split…

One day I’m going to try to cover this, and I’m going to cry because I just can’t do it justice.

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