Word: rains
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Dates: during 2000-2009
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...demons that haunt Traffic from Paradise are banished by the angels of redemption that hover overhead. On the standout cut, Beat Angels, Jones' voice shines like a beacon over roiling seas as she asks, ''Don't you wonder where one goes wrong?/ Is it somewhere in a foreign rain. . ./ A man don't know what he's got in his veins/ 'Til beat angels come and take him away.'' Lifted by the unfettered emotion of such moments, this moody album spreads its wings and soars...
...older sense of parody, travesty, impudent fun. There is humid sexuality at the start of the two-hour extravaganza (topless acrobat on a phallic pole, Madonna easing a whip past her crotch, dancers gyrating in auto-massage), but it soon gives way to simpler, sunnier images. For Rain, Madonna dons demure black; the look says, ''Listen to the sad ballad, the sweet harmonies.'' For Express Yourself, she's dolled up in royal blue bell-bottoms and a frizz wig, to pay homage to the gaudy innocence of the Cyndi Lauper era. The Wayback Machine keeps spinning until...
...whenever I return home, Portland and I always share a short love affair that quickly sours, and I end up remembering why I don’t always miss it. Usually I tire of the constant rain. But sometimes I get sick of the powerful undercurrents of irony and apathy that hide beneath the city’s reputation as a cultural mecca. When I’m home, I always run into the same alternative kids from high school, still working in the same old coffee shops with their old lackluster ambitions. Portland sometimes seems like a graveyard crowded...
During the summer, New York is mainly governed by an unbearable presence of heat. This has been brutally punctuated by torrential downpours of rain. Black clouds ahead, I hurried through a Tribeca street, vainly attempting to speed ahead of the menacing roars of thunder bellowing from New Jersey. My worried eye met an amused server behind the cupcake display in a café. I faltered, looked behind me, and obeyed her brief beckon to rescind my futile mission. Of course, she got some business, but she also knew that I would not out-maneuver the elements, and she nodded approvingly...
...Open courses such as Birkdale tend to be more sparsely decorated than the courses on which U.S. majors are played: with fewer scoreboards and no JumboTrons, the Open reminds competitors that golf is essentially a lonely sport, designed to be played over a large expanse, often in wind and rain. This feeling of isolation is intensified at Birkdale, where fairways run through valleys carved out of sand dunes. Playing among Birkdale's shadows and swales for the first time, says Leadbetter, "is like playing on the moon...