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Rating: Dear Mikael, as far as I'm concerned, you're just a name like many others. Looking at your cover photo, you resemble my mother's trusted fishmonger when he struts upon seeing a beautiful woman. No smoking in the shop, though thinking about it for just a second gives you that very Leonard Cohen vibe, which has its charm for ladies in menopause. I didn't know you were Russian and that besides selling fish, you composed soundtracks.
I was left speechless like one of your dear fish listening to the 50 tracks from films between the late 60s and mid-70s. "Not Only Fish" says your ambiguous shop sign, and you are absolutely right. Absolutely, my dear fishmonger.
Henry Mancini, jazzy cuttlefish, frames that smell of black and white France, piano and voice romance, smoky fragments that I wouldn't mind seeing in the Tindersticks' songbook, waltzes, European 50s New Orleans, the inevitable pat on Morricone's shoulder, melodies that replace the heartbeat.
Long story short, you are truly one badass fishmonger.
Damn, now I understand why there's always so much fish at my mother's house.
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