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Rating: She, plain and simple, fills a name from a slutty Russia.
Eighties synths, deeply sweet voice from November in former East Berlin.
Gray, calm ambient textures, for gray awakenings beside her tousled hair. Nerd glasses on the nightstand. A copy of Steinbeck confirms the age.
Sunday and the sweet do-nothing, boys' dreams, nothing special, nothing transcendental, nothing important. All very instinctive. Derivative.
The simplicity strikes. Pop that has always been between these walls, under these covers, hidden in these drawers.
A quick kiss, a white sun, biscuits breaking in tea.
Striped knee-high socks, thighs to study. Watching her and knowing why you were born.
The door closes, Sunday swallows her. You're left with her nerd glasses and these trapped notes until tonight.
And Berlin screams in the void of a desaturated autumn sky.
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