It’s chill outside, as well. I mean, chill for central Texas. I biked home from work in 55-degree weather. Yes, folks, there’s a nip in the air, and it’s times like these when we turn inward ever so slightly, finding enjoyment in our own quiet thoughts and maybe, just maybe, if we’re lucky, those of one we love. Let’s face it, peeps: ‘Tis the season to get mellow and sexual.
Maybe I’m talking out of my ass. I probably am. And I’m okay with that. The point I want to make, in typically elliptical and roundabout fashion, is that I’m listening to David Crosby‘s debut album, If I Could Only Remember My Name, and it fits these chill times like a warm, easily distractible glove. This is easily the best thing David Crosby ever put out, and the best Crosby, Stills & Nash solo album by far. It’s lightly druggy, abstract, introspective, and exquisitely calm and languid—perfect sweater weather music, perfect post-sex come-down music.
I’d give this album more words than this but I’d rather just let this particular album speak for itself. Put it on and chill out.