November is hard. It is cold and it’s dark and it catches you off guard and it makes you realize your love affair with summer has come to a brutal, cold end.
For weeks I have been wallowing in this, wrestling my hatred of the cold and other stupid ideas.
And I’m over it.
And I would like to thank Cut Copy.
Cut Copy is not a virgin mobile commercial. Not a crowded show at the stupidest club in town or anything my cynical mainstream-hating friends derive.
Cut Copy is, and always will be:
A sundress in 30 degrees
Vodka in lemonade
The bass hammering my sunburnt chest
Sweaty, hot sun. Palm trees.
Perfect.
Every band is like a pin on a map for me. Every song is tied to something.
Cut Copy is a perfect day and even Richard Branson can’t fuck that up.
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