When Bad Recommendations Go Good, Part Two. (See yesterday’s adventures for Part One)
When Takeda were pitched to me, I had little hope. Vague mutterings about a world-folk ‘outfit’ who were ‘getting attention in Norfolk’ just didn’t reach up my trouser leg and grab me by the balls, in all honesty.
Within this article, then, lie lessons on the benefits of ignorance, bloody-mindedness and the value of another weary click of another speculative URL. Because – and listen carefully – if A Million Years isn’t the most damn beautiful song I’ve heard for weeks – months even – I’m a banana.
Why explain any more? Listen:
There’s no point in wondering where this song came from, or how it came to be, or even what sparked its existence. Just be pleased this song is here, and gratefully allow its downy softness to slowly envelop your body.
There are times when the weight of the world just seems too much, and times when finding comfort is impossible. This song can’t help you with that.
But when that weight is lifted, and when you experience the honey-sweet lightness of relief, the sound you hear in your head will either be a soft, delicious wash of tinnitus-white noise, or it will be a song as beautiful, orange and warm as A Million Years. Hopefully it will be this exact song.
Life is strange. Orson Welles touched greatness and then never recovered. Joseph Heller stumbled over a baby-sized gold nugget first time. Takeda might never reach these heights again, but who cares? This song is the sound of them standing at the top of the mountain; panting, happy, dizzy.