This song by Canadian indie band Hexes & Ohs, a self-described Montréal electro-pop duo, is my current obsession. There’s something cute and romantic about the video that I didn’t originally get from just the song itself. I don’t know how I feel about the difference.
In any case, I’m glad I’m not the same old skinny kid from high school.
Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!
Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!
You really want it, don’t you?
You really want it, don’t you?
Feel it all over, all over again
Bound to keel over, like lovers we lay
Your mouth is all dried up
Your tongue is all tied up
Feel it over, all over again
About to keel over, like lovers we lay
You don’t, cuz you won’t, so you don’t, so you can’t
You don’t, cuz you won’t, so you don’t, so you can’t
Nothing has changed
The same old skinny kid from high school
You don’t, cuz you won’t, so you don’t, so you can’t
You don’t, cuz you won’t, so you don’t, so you can’t
Awkward and (derange ?)
The same old skinny kid from high school
Old habits die hard
Old habits die hard
Feels like sleepwalking, all over again
There’s no sense in talking, like lovers we lay
When it’s second nature
A permanent fixture
It’s hard to recover, all over again
I’m bound to discover, like lovers we lay
Check out more at the band’s website or on Apple’s iTunes Store. I’d recommend you see them live (I know I want to!), but it appears that their only upcoming tour dates are in Toronto and Montréal.
In. The first breath of crisp air is the trumpet that begins the march. Down the stairs, down the hill, and into the darkness. Descending into the nighttime world where lonely cars carrying lonely drivers cross lonely roads in search of a destination. The traffic lights too lazy to steady themselves, flash their yellow and red faces for the few travelers who pass underneath. The runner pays no mind to these frivolities, these regulations, these reminders of the contained life of cars and offices and classrooms and apartments.
He breathes in, out. In, out. In. The coordinated 1-2, 1-2, tick-tock of his steps on cold, hard cement relay the sound of a one-man army, advancing at steady pace, frosty breath the only mark of his passing. Unencumbered by barricades of pedestrians and columns of vehicles on the march, the sidewalks and intersections cleared of obstruction, he advances.
The car brakes down the hill outside his window, shiny black and coolly reflective under the orange glow of the streetlight. Its origin unknown—a stealthy visitor from a faraway land, he thinks, a traveler announcing her presence with the low, almost imperceptible ‘whoosh’ of slowing air riding over finely engineered curves. Air. Air like fingers, reaching ’round the hood, brushing in long, light strokes over the windshield. Air like fingers, working, wrapping, wrapping her like a cocoon, a web—no, a fine cigar, skin taut and tight—wrapping her like a Christmas present come two days late.
It will never be enough, he thinks, to peer through these panes. She stops, and takes a right.
The orange glow of the streetlight never dims. It shines on the black asphalt, aflame.
The feeling comes and goes, but the more I consider it, the more I feel as if I am undeserving of enjoying the affection of a woman so perfect and, herself, deserving.
By what justification can an imperfect man bask in the glow of consummate female perfection? To attempt to bind an aspirational but flawed perfection to the ranks of the beautiful, the brilliant, the eternally considerate, seems an unfair burden, and one which the latter should never be suffered to endure.
I can rely on but one thing: the infinite grace and consideration inherent in that high rank of woman, an enduring if unsteady star in a field of darkness, guiding me north to brighter days—my Polaris, star of salvation.
This song is my latest obsession. My favorite line is the fourth.
My horizon, jet black mountain, you’re crumbling into the sea
And little city, you’re still so young, but you got so dirty
Hey, old ocean, are you still holding on? You look so sad and empty
Fires burning, forests falling, for evergreen, forever gone
I’ll say a prayer for the trees by the side of the road
For the deer in the headlights and the ashes of the fire, still growing
I’ll say goodbye to the lives of the aquamarine
The catch of the day, and moonlight swimming
The heat on my back, like two hands
More likely to give than to receive
Standing on the side of the highway
Taking shelter in the shade of the last big tree for miles around
There are fires burning for miles around
Ashes to the ground… There are fires burning for miles around
You're at the blog of Justin LaSelva, a consumer technology specialist, an alumnus of Wesleyan University, and a rabid fan of everything Canadian indie. Originally from southeastern Massachusetts, he currently resides in Austin, TX.
