Tag: Tennis

M. Ward could get by on his smoky velvet voice alone, but he also happens to be a supreme connoisseur of what alert musicians call songcraft.

The composer stood over the gunwale, pressed the small button, and blew into the instrument, discharging the contents into the dark green waters below. If they had known it was going to be this type of floating market, they would have picked a different watercraft. This explained the unprecedented difficulties when trying to secure their transportation with the Colombo office. The ichthyologist indicated one of the floating structures, and began maneuvering their craft towards it. The composer took a breath and the signal, a brief segment of “Message To You Rudy”, went out from the melodica.

The topologist carefully unfolded the graph depicting prime number frequencies. Across the scrub, the baker was returning from the Unimog, having concluded the search, and from the looks of their empty hands, unsuccessfully. They must have left it in the cab back in Calabar. Wonderful. Together, they considered the placement of the carved stone monoliths before them, their geometric arrangement random to the average visitor, but a clear reflection of order to the ancient people of Alok Ikom, and apparently, also related to the graph before them, with cataclysmic mathematical consequences.

The strategist made to pick up a card, then withdrew their hand. A cool breeze, laden with yesterday’s afternoon dust, stirred through the empty square near the Musée Ahmed Zabana, knocking discarded paper cups against the stone table’s legs. The tandem scooter, not something you usually see in these parts of Northern Africa, come to think of it the world, leaned against the bench the investigator slouched on. “Make your move” their eyes implored in exasperation, as the pair waited for the gift shop to open.

The Musée National stood like a squat block, facing the highway at an angle and mirrored to the left by the library. The hu hu sat inside, waiting in the wing housing the musical instrument collection. The surgeon nervously handled the endoscope case, dusty from the helicopter ride that had brought them to N’Djamena. The calligrapher was clearly nervous but their services would only be required for brief minutes while they inspected the inscription on the inside of the ancient calabash.

Intricate blue-eyed soul arrangements and a heavenly female pop singer intersect into something decidedly sturdy and magnetic.

“Did you say you wanted FIVE?” asked the turkey-leg vendor, his incredulity betraying the slightest bit of Norwegian accent. The crowds at the Trondenes Middle Ages Visitor Park thronged past as the young man counted the hands available to the pair before him, performed a simple matching algorithm to the five turkey-legs being requested, and came up with a non-computing value. “We’re hungry,” offered the machinist helpfully. The gymnast kept an eye out for Sverre the allodialist. They needed to have a few words with him about the land titles, preferably in the privacy of the sleek three-man catamaran that had discretely brought them here. The half-darkening of the sky that passed for night at these latitudes meant the usual tactics were out and they would have to convince him to come willingly.

Delightfully twee songs, filled with shimmering melodies, sparkling production, and heavenly choruses.

Heavenly melodies, luscious harmonies, over-chorused guitar jangles, and a sunny sparkling delivery make this suitable for ‘90s 4AD fans.

A listener suggested I slip in Wham!’s “Last Christmas” but as someone filled with old-fashioned Lacking Integrity, I politely declined. That said, your host survived the season unscathed. In this episode, we dedicate the Middle Hour to some fine covers. Shout out to Robin in Atlanta for hanging out in the late-night post-holiday gulch.