It’s a little after ten o’clock on Sunday morning and I’m sitting quietly in the living room, nursing a mild hangover and listening to Neil Young. I picked up his Live at Massey Hall 1971 a while ago, and didn’t really get a chance to listen to it right away. I ripped it for the iPod, but that never means much, shuffle being what it is.Â Anyhow, I listened to it through a couple times last night, and it’s extraordinary. Young sits down, solo, in a hall and plays a bunch of songs he’s just written (as most everyone would know, songs that would become Harvest), and holds the audience in the palm of his hand. I saw him play live in 1997 and I know realise that his voice was already shot, and he was half way to being the self-parody that he’s become, but for a while there he was magnificent.
Marianne and I are going to take the girls out for dim sum and maybe a quiet wander through a bookshop, which is a pleasant enough way to spend a rainy Sunday. For the moment, though, the house is surrounded by kids. We have a bunch of young ones who live next door, and they usually end up running round and round out place, chasing each other, and playing. It’s loud, but they usually enjoy it. I’m also getting ready to read a new Michael Swanwick story, which seems like a good thing to do. I do need to get ON with my reading, though. It’s not long till the year’s best has to be handed in.