[Songs My Son Should Know] Interpol | NYC

This is a tough song to write about because, like the city itself, NYC means a lot of things to a lot of people.  You rarely hear of another place on the planet that invokes the kind of personal chronicling that is elicited from a resident, a tourist, a wishful thinker.  New York is not so much a place as it is a story -- but not a story you tell of it, rather the story it tells of you.  It is a place inspired by its people, and because of this, it is ever-evolving spit, maintaining its historical gospel, but prompting the Quixote nature of its cumulate -- and so I ask, how does the city reckon for you?  What fortune and romance did you etch into its biography?

Manhattan is practically the birthplace of our son, since the architectural climax of our courtship resulted in the bright-light nuptials in The City, and thus, the logical next step was building a new generation, the first of which is Enzo Augustine, youngling of wishful thinkers.  It is his genesis.

Manhattan is also the anchorage of various important relationships and memoirs -- the time spent with so very many adored friends and family, rummaging the streets of neighborhoods like discomposed kids.  Its an incorruptible chronology that hails my heart with as much fervor as an occupied cab.

The radiance of NYC, the song, encapsulates the clash and clamor of such an cogent scratch of land, set to be the first embrace of envisage for the people of fantasy.  All things begin here.  And when you part, the ghost of it lingers.

NYC is a somewhat of a dangerous song, as its poignant reflection makes me a bit of a heavy drinker and habitual play-repeat-play'er.  I've sat alone on my front porch several nights, singing into a rehabilitative glass of Red Breast, serenading the neighborhood with 259 free plays of NYC.  Yes, you are welcome.  The whiskey, she is a porno.