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π—–π—Όπ—»π—»π—Όπ—Ήπ—Ήπ˜†β€™π˜€ 𝗖𝗼𝗿𝗻𝗲𝗿 - this week: Capricho Árabe - TFM

Updated: Feb 18

Welcome all to π—–π—Όπ—»π—»π—Όπ—Ήπ—Ήπ˜†β€™π˜€ 𝗖𝗼𝗿𝗻𝗲𝗿, a series of weekly reviews by Charles Connolly - an artist in his own right. Here, Charles delves into the greatest brand new singles brought to you by the best unsigned artists on our electrifying and eclectic set of π™‰π™šπ™¬ π˜Όπ™§π™©π™žπ™¨π™© π™Žπ™₯π™€π™©π™‘π™žπ™œπ™π™© playlists.


π˜Ύπ™–π™₯π™§π™žπ™˜π™π™€ π˜ΌΜπ™§π™–π™—π™š - π™π™π™ˆ


Charles travels to warmer climates...


As even London is granted a rather deep dusting of snow, the climate all over the world seems to be decidedly chilly - excluding the land of our fellow koala-breeding Britonians on the other side, of course. And it is because of this inclement weather, that I dream of Europe. Europe in the summertime. Let us transport ourselves not only geographically, but also in time, to Spain, in a lost era.


The sun is deep, throbbing and bearing down upon our glossy golden backs. We are far away from the city. Rusticity is the flavour here. Peace, tranquillity and overriding heat. Even the constant murmuring flies are having a hard time to stay focused. In fact, except for an elderly lady quietly hanging out a sheet to dry - it won't take long - the subdued flies are really all that can be heard in this truly ancient environment. The region is naturally hilly. I won't say mountainous because that would simply feel almost extravagant for such a simplistic way of life. The rocky buildings ascend and descend seemingly as pointlessly as the two or three steps on the first floor of Fawlty Towers. Up and down they go, to create a natural interest to an otherwise pretty barren landscape. The sea is nearby. It ripples in, sees no reason in staying, and ripples out again.


A man appears from an open archway on a first floor balcony. With a well-played classical guitar, he sits; as if it were to be a ritual as common as breakfast. "TFM" is modestly yet crudely carved in the stone of the villa. He quietly mutters the name Capricho Árabe, has a sip of coffee, examines his fingernails and begins our meditation with an energetic strike of harmonics, as if to get our attention. He most certainly has it. This, he follows with an almost Arabic run down, and repeats. The intro has us under his spell. And so to the tune. Waxing and waning with the irregular tempo of the tide, it moves and sways the soul. The song's melody simmers our temper to that of a light sizzle. The heart beats but slower.


He puts down the guitar, but it continues to sing. TFM picks a rose from the rail of trailing blooms, and pensively looks out to sea. He has heard this song before. It brings a fondness to his heart, but a tear to his eye. A memory. Maybe more than one. The cluster of pink petals is thrown on to the dusty path and he slumps back to the stringed puppet he knows so well. We are confronted with the vision of one man but the sound of two guitars. This can only come from experience to play this well.


The sun is setting and the air is heavy. The flies are sleeping, and so is the elderly lady. Her long-dry sheet wavers in the light breeze, and is now the only sound to be heard. TFM lays his wooden friend to rest for the evening, puts his heavy feet up on a nearby excuse for a chair, and places a Panama hat upon his face. His back curves and slides towards the position of slumber.


The sea ripples in, the sea ripples out. Even the sun rests its hot head. Night has fallen.


Listen to TFM's latest single, π˜Ύπ™–π™₯π™§π™žπ™˜π™π™€ π˜ΌΜπ™§π™–π™—π™š HERE!


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