If Dreams Are Truly A Window Into The Soul, My Superego Needs To Order Some Of That Translucent Privacy Clingfilm
Last night I dreamt that it was the last few days of my senior year in high school, and I was running for class president, and I transfixed the particpants through a combination of stunning basketball skills and the singing of ballads in the style of the late Lou Rawls. Who was in the audience. In a very nice tuxedo.
The school stuff I get, it's very "pick one from column A, one from column B..." as dreams go, everyone's had a thousand of 'em. Lou Rawls, I don't get. If I've got a single one of his tracks, I don't remember it; if you asked me to name one of his hits I'd stall you on the phone while I snuck off to allmusic.com. But somehow I know what he sounded like. (I snuck off to allmusic.com -- "mannered", "soothing", "elegant"...yeah, that's what I was doing in the gym alright.)
So I have to conclude that Lou Rawls has decided to speak through me from beyond the grave.
I'll report back if this gets me a discount on a best-of collection at Amoeba.
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