Parisienne Walkways

Listening to Gary Moore is always a painfully sweet experience. There's something about his tender guitar that wrings the remaining whimper from the coldest heart. I always think of him as that quintessential American guy, (although he was Irish but such is our perception of anything Western because the Russians don't speak the same marketing and advertising language, do they), whose love for his music and unwariness when it comes to women makes him instantly idol-worthy. That essential loneliness which most musicians and writers possess shines through in a lot of his album covers. 'Shines' because the most gorgeous work comes from solitude, other people are usually messes you don't need although they are great fodder for the work. No, I couldn't be more cynical but age does that to you. Still, who doesn't have a soft spot for men who are vulnerable to life?
After the Paris horror, my playlist which already included Parisienne Walkways, was on replay.
Gary died in a hotel room but I hope he knows, somewhere, that people still listen to his heartbreaking riffs and feel uplifted for no discernible reason. In other words, we've Still Got the Blues for you, babe.