Psychedelic Love

My housemate has the most catholic taste in music; from Alice In Chains to Alicia Keys, since Madonna was (like) a virgin to her Maverick protegé Alanis Morisette.

While raiding my housemate’s extensive collection, I recall her sentiments on her brood. She informs, with a faraway “I probably shouldn’t have bought it back then” look in her eyes, that this current stash were the survivors trimmed down from an even larger encyclopedic (she alphabetises them) library.

It took a while to navigate through the 12 rows, each stacked with 70 polystyrene cases. Instead of picking out names that I was familiar with, I settled on an album whose cover featured a painted black-and-white portrait of a lady in a tophat.

The second album from Love Psychedelico proved to be rather delightful. As I pottered about the office, the female vocalist’s cool nonchalant vocals and the unhurried strumming from the guitar, curiously enough, was able to alleviate the heat wave that the preceding shower couldn’t.

Kewl.

P.S. Is it still cool to say kewl?

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