You know when you’re young, like as young as fifteen, and you picture yourself in the distant future, driving some shiny flying car, sporting stunning newly invented textiles, while you breath poisonous air through a fancy mask, a sickly sunset partly hidden by an impressive skyline. You’re listening to a brand new song, the guy’s who singing, you’ve known him for decades. Not personally, of course, but you’ve touched the tip of his fingers once, and he’s been singing for you for all this time.

Twenty-seven years later I’m sitting in the middle of a medium sized movie theater, in a huge multiplex, inside a gigantic mall. Around me it’s about thirty people my age, nearly all of them are male, most of the seats are empty. We’re all wearing stupid 3D glasses and we can’t see a damn thing. We’re all sobbing miserably. That guy, still singing for us.

This, I would say, was my experience with One More Time with Feelings, in a nutshell.

Published by Garnant (frivolous, uncaring and cold)