The story of how I came to love Gorky's is similar to that of Herman Düne: years of hearing them on John Peel and feeling more or less indifferent, and then one day the scales fell from my ears and the glorious beauty of their songs.
Once you've heard it, you wonder how you ever missed it. Because beauty is the word. It belongs to neither the strain of 'indie' that is afraid of beauty (the way Bob Dylan described himself being on Joan Baez in Concert, Part 2) or the self-consciously pretty, twee strain. Perhaps it's just my Welsh blood, diluted though it is, that resonates with the gift of a particular kind of melody — the same gift that John Cale has (apparently he's a fan).
I kick myself for being so late to the game (I guess Brian was a fan from 1992), but at least we got to see them once before they split. In 2004 there was a dream double bill of Yo La Tengo and Gorky's Zygotic Mynci, a live Double A Side, and when they visited Shepherds Bush Empire I told Lucy, "You'll love both of them." Happily I was right, so now I can borrow her Gorky's albums as well.
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