The thing about murder…

‘To Die For – Murder Songs’ sounded like a fantastic theme upon Magpie’s recommendation. Humorously morbid. A loose pun. Chortle. But when it actually came around to writing for this theme I faced a bit of a problem. Call me oldfashioned for liking music to scale away from the homicidal end of the spectrum, but bar “I Shot the Sheriff” I couldn’t really think of any songs that I knew that were related to murder. My first last resort was to throw in some music from my emotional teenage years (Bullet for my Valentine, anyone?) but I realised I wouldn’t be able to hold my head high as a blogger or adult human being ever again. So in the end I decided that my reluctance was pure laziness.

The moral of the story? Song of the day is about expanding one’s musical horizons! “There are many fantastic songs about murder,” I was told. “You just have to look.” Yet expanding ones musical horizons does, admittedly, require a level of effort I don’t readily expel when overseas with limited internet. So in the end, I met my laziness halfway.


Come for the witty posts, stay for the excellent artwork.

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Desert Island Whimsy

It’s been a long week on this island.

At times, i’ve been comforted by my Desert Island Survival Songs and the unique beauty of a tropical setting. But there’s only so much coconut one person can take. And there’s only so much campfire acapella two people can perform before you just really start to feel sorry for the wildlife.

Yes, that’s right, there are two of us now.

Two days ago I was nakedly minding my own business when I noticed a whale-like silhouette on the horizon. I was pretty excited at first, but Wilson curtly reminded me that I don’t have the prerequisite whimsy or gills for whale-riding. A kill-joy, that Wilson.

So I went about my day, brooding, coconut hoarding, hunting small animals and boogying in the night time. As the last chorus of Dreadlock Holiday faded with the wilting dusk, the whale was nowhere to be seen. Whatever, I thought. He would be back with the sunrise to taunt me further (Wilson and the Whale were obviously in cahoots.)

But instead of waking to a whale, or the beautiful sound of Whitacre’s Allelulia, I woke to the savage face of Magpie come to end my life. Soaked and sunburnt, she pinned me down and beat me with a ball of makeshift yarn. I was certain that she had gone mad.

But the force of her blows promptly gave way to anguished tears. “I just want some meat,” she sobbed.

So I cooked her up some chargrilled toucan and we talked shit out.

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Brighter than sand and palm leaves.

Peachy was right. We both definitely have Desert Island Stockholm Syndrome. I’ve even fashioned myself a pair of knitting needles out of broken branches, and working out how to break the leaves down into fibres and spin them into yarn is keeping me occupied. Now that I’ve worked out which nuts and berries are okay to eat I have a lot more time to spare.

At night, by the light of the stars, I can see a trail of smoke curling into the sky from what can only be Peachy’s island. Maybe my next project will be a raft. Two heads are better than one, and who knows, there may even be animals on her island. I miss meat so much.


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Here’s a hypothetical: my desert island (sans heat, deadly fauna and insects) is actually damn beautiful.

Because i’m on a desert island, I wake with the sun as nature intended. I watch it cast light on to inky water and for a sec I forget about my makeshift noose, the volleyball who stole my silver chain, and my constant dreams about German cowboys. I listen to this heartbreakingly beautiful song and am at peace.


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I’m sorry, Wilson!

After my last post  about the implacable nostalgia that Germans call ‘sehnsucht’*, i’m gonna keep it light and on-track today. Desert island day #3. I’ve listened to Iron and Golden Brown so many times that i’m beginning to unconsciously tie pieces of clothing together in a noose-like fashion. On the up-side, I find the nakedness freeing – it’s so hot on this damn island. But look! What’s that in the sky? Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s a ghostly apparition of Magpie come to grant me song number 3.


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Why am I still on this damn island?

Dear peeled-bark diary,

Day three on the island, still no sign of help. I’m really, really sun burnt and I’ve got a lot of mosquito bites. I’m glad I have this playlist, though, and these super convenient solar powered speakers. Even though the salt water corrupted all but four songs on my MP3 player (BECAUSE SCIENCE, OKAY?) I couldn’t have asked for four better songs.

I was assured, before leaving, that if I was ever shipwrecked, that all of the islands in this region are patrolled by special crack squads of people rescuers once a fortnight. The tour operator said I’d be surprised by how often they pick people up. This means that at worst, I’ve got eleven more days to wait until someone gets here. I can do this.

Today, diary, I’ve decided to try not to remind myself OF THE PAINFUL ABSENCE OF ALL HUMAN SPEECH OTHER THAN MY OWN. Thankfully, one of the four songs is an instrumental piece.


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