as kids, swingy numbers played on poorly tuned recorders & trumpets, loud drums, got us jiggin. the musicians burnt by the mangalore sun played on dressed in worn, blue, buggy uniforms. there was no attitude there, not even art. they played. people enjoyed it. everyone was taking a break. from the heat. from makin a living. from the red earth that reflected the sun painfully. and from the endless summer.
women with crackin skins & plastered cuticura dressed in heavy silks ignoring the heat. perfumes bought by sons from the gulf reeking in the hot, unbearably tight air. us kids, scruffy, despite the agitated cleaning of our mums...
listenin to john fogerty makes me remember those days. hot summers spent on the island of fun & the metaphors it gave for reminiscence.