Well, the first time I heard one of Suzanne's songs was on a radio program called Night Flight. It took place weekly, between Saturday and Sunday around midnight. It always started somewhere, and after two hours landed somewhere else and always seemed to be the first one in a series that never materialized. I tried to get the plane each Saturday for about seven years until it took off the last time to go to an unknown destination. Since then, when I'm about to listen to a new unheard record with great anticipation, I try to make sure to have silence around me, to be in an inspired mood, in the middle of the night, somewhere in space and time, in-between two days. I try to be really open to get that first impression that under those conditions blends together pictures from films, dreams, from my own experience with those I'm actually creating while listening to the song. To me it was the first prove of the power and strength of her songs that these images have not faded after time. In a strange way they seem to be new every time of listening; and they are following me, to be recalled sometimes someplace. Like here.
We have to go for a quest. Let's call us The Boulevardiers. Sometimes we will be many, sometimes we will be few, sometimes just the two of us. Most of the travelling we have to do for ourselves, and at all the places we have to walk, they are not easily accessible. Follow the path of the songlines into Suzanne's World. It is certainly a very real one, but there are always realms under the surface, and they are always very near...
Our journey begins at a place where many worlds meet: New York; somewhere in an open space, in a park. It is a cold and clear winter afternoon with almost no snow, and something is happening...
It's a one time thing \ It just happens a lot... -- What do you mean? \ 'A one time thing' if it happens a lot? \ Will it happen to me? \ Has it happened to you? \ I just like to know what's on the plot! -- I don't know. \ Seems to be there \ when you're about to remember \ what since the last time you forgot. Walk with me \ and we will see \ what we have got --.
We get the rhythm of walking and we don't care much where from or where to, and our footsteps are ticking \ like water dripping from a tree. Are you hearing something? -- We have to be very silent now, like walking a hairline \ and stepping very carefully. -- Someone came along, someone was passing by, he or she? Someone was murmuring, or was I talking to myself? -- What did you hear? -- It was kind of a riddle, with a monotone melody... -- "My heart is broken \ It is worn out at the knees \ Hearing muffled \ Seeing blind \ Soon it will hit the Deep Freeze..." -- One cold winter day I walked along a coast in Sweden. On she shore I saw a piece of ice, something seemed to be inside, totally surrounded in its icy shell. I took it with me and left it near the fireplace. When I looked after it later, I found a small, wet, red, smooth, heart-shaped stone... -- A nutshell under my shoe, or under yours, or a piece of ice? -- Something is cracking \ I don't know where \ Ice on the sidewalk -- We're walking under the trees, brittle branches \ in the air just above our heads, and beyond there's a pale blue sky, a velvet underground.
And as it is darkening we realize that we're once again on the playground where we played games that changed with the time. And the sun is fading fast \ Upon the slides into the past \ Upon the swings of indecision \ In the wintertime -- First it's the cold and the excitement, the tickling and trembling \ of freeze tag \ in the dark. Next time I stand with my hands in my pocket \ and lean against the wall \ I feel like Bogart \ and you look like Bacall. -- Time goes in circles. Now we're the actors we once just played, I am now Ladd and you are now Lake. -- Slow fade now to black \ Let's play one more game of chivalry \ You and me \ -- We watch the dimming diamonds scattering in the park -- See, someone 's working late up there in the Trade Center! -- No, this is a star already... -- \ And we can only say Yes now \ To the sky, to the street, to the night...
To be continued Klaus Korger