Counting Crows
August And Everything After

THE REVIEW

It's true, I can clearly see that there are already two reviews of "August And Everything After", but I ask the harshest critics to turn a blind eye primarily for two reasons: 1. I believe everyone has their own way of experiencing and reading this album; 2. this is not exactly a review, it's a story, the story of "Mr. Jones", as narrated in the song and completed with the help of interviews given by Adam and lovingly translated and collected on the site http://crowsitalia.altervista.org. What a load of rubbish, you might say. Perhaps, yes, but I believe that trying to understand what was on Adam's mind when he wrote these songs is important to understand the album itself. This story is still my opinion. In any case, evaluate it as you wish; for me, publishing it is enough (provided they allow it). I was asking the harshest critics to turn a blind eye primarily for two reasons, as a third reason, regarding the fact that it is a duplicate, you could find yourself: maybe you'll like it.

Mr. Jones

The neon sign "New Amsterdam" was flickering badly. The first "e" gave faint signs of life, the second, however, was gone, perhaps forever. The noises from inside the bar were the only ones in the neighborhood, if by neighborhood we mean that cluster of shacks that surrounded the "New Amsterdam". It was quite sad, but for a drunk night, it was more than enough. Marty and I walked in slowly, the only pace two unlucky guys without a trace of a girl and with a mad desire to drown in alcohol could have. Inside wasn't bad: the voices we'd heard were those of an old guitarist croaking with his smoker's sixties voice and his choir of other sixties women, to the rhythm of flamenco. They too had seen better days. We headed for the bar counter and sat on two stools, waiting for the bartender, absorbed in a deep conversation with a bearded and chubby guy. They were talking friendly, but I was too annoyed to listen.

-Hey, did you see that one?- Marty suddenly said. He was winking at one of the two girls dancing in the center of the floor. I hadn't noticed them. They wore long dresses, but loose enough to allow them to move. The skirts were agitated convulsively, tossed left and right by the girls' movements. Marty was talking about the brunette dancer, maybe she was pretty, I don't know, what I had drunk was starting to get into my body and clouding my brain. I don't know what it was, but it seemed strong: "It's on me," Marty had said.

Everything began to move jerkily, the lights flashing on and off, even the guitar was going in fits and starts. The notes were arriving strongly to my ears and bombarding my eardrums which were begging for silence. But Maria was too beautiful to leave at that moment. -She's looking at you- Marty said again. And laughed. He must have taken the same thing I drank. -Don't talk rubbish! She’s looking at you...- I told him, and I was convinced of what I was saying. We were very sad because, to get to that point, in that miserable situation, we had to be. Yet Maria was truly beautiful and I couldn't understand if she was winking at me or Marty, perhaps neither. Actually, definitely neither. Now she approaches the grumpy guitarist, whispers in his ear and soon the guy changes the song, still flamenco.

-Can you imagine Marty, if we were rock stars those dancers would be all over us-. At the time I was convinced of most of the things I said. -You know Marty, I want to buy a grey guitar, can you imagine how cool a grey guitar would look on stage, with all the lights hitting it and reflecting around the room?- I was getting carried away at that point. Marty first looked at me oddly, a bit like saying "What the hell are you talking about", then smiled, then laughed and said: -Yes! Yes! Just like Bob Dylan!-. I don't think Bob Dylan ever had a grey guitar, but it didn't matter because Marty understood the concept, because Bob Dylan was famous, and I wanted to be famous. Don't tell me you've never dreamed of getting on stage and singing your songs in front of a huge crowd; well, I have, and the idea, damn it, drives me crazy! And I want to turn on the TV and see myself there smiling at the camera with hundreds of flamenco dancers around and 100000 people in front of me who watch, scream, and pull their hair out for me. I want to be Bob Dylan and become famous with my grey guitar and my flamenco dancers. I want to be someone whose name people remember. I don't want to have to play in those crappy pubs "maximum capacity: 50 people" anymore. "We are the Counting Crows!" I want to scream and hear the girls cry out my name and pray to God to give them an orgasm just by looking at me. I don't want to be a loser anymore. I want fame, I want women, I want people to remember who I am: "I am Adam Duritz! And we are the Counting Crows!" I want to be able to shout.

I returned home late that night, picked up pen and paper to jot something down. My head was about to explode, but I had to write. I had to do it immediately, while drunk, or all those emotions would escape with the hangover. And as I wrote that song, I seriously saw the things I was writing. I really saw myself on TV, but this time the stage was empty, no dancers; just me and my band and in front of us the same 100000 people, and I swear in the silence of my house I really shouted: "I am Adam Duritz! We are the Counting Crows! And this... this... is Mr. Jones! Sha la la la la la la!"