المحتوى المقدم من Simon Sweetman. يتم تحميل جميع محتويات البودكاست بما في ذلك الحلقات والرسومات وأوصاف البودكاست وتقديمها مباشرة بواسطة Simon Sweetman أو شريك منصة البودكاست الخاص بهم. إذا كنت تعتقد أن شخصًا ما يستخدم عملك المحمي بحقوق الطبع والنشر دون إذنك، فيمكنك اتباع العملية الموضحة هنا https://ar.player.fm/legal.
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America’s Sweethearts: Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders is back for its second season! Kay Adams welcomes the women who assemble the squad, Kelli Finglass and Judy Trammell, to the Netflix Sports Club Podcast. They discuss the emotional rollercoaster of putting together the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. Judy and Kelli open up about what it means to embrace flaws in the pursuit of perfection, how they identify that winning combo of stamina and wow factor, and what it’s like to see Thunderstruck go viral. Plus, the duo shares their hopes for the future of DCC beyond the field. Netflix Sports Club Podcast Correspondent Dani Klupenger also stops by to discuss the NBA Finals, basketball’s biggest moments with Michael Jordan and LeBron, and Kevin Durant’s international dominance. Dani and Kay detail the rise of Coco Gauff’s greatness and the most exciting storylines heading into Wimbledon. We want to hear from you! Leave us a voice message at www.speakpipe.com/NetflixSportsClub Find more from the Netflix Sports Club Podcast @NetflixSports on YouTube, TikTok, Instagram, Facebook, and X. You can catch Kay Adams @heykayadams and Dani Klupenger @daniklup on IG and X. Be sure to follow Kelli Finglass and Judy Trammel @kellifinglass and @dcc_judy on IG. Hosted by Kay Adams, the Netflix Sports Club Podcast is an all-access deep dive into the Netflix Sports universe! Each episode, Adams will speak with athletes, coaches, and a rotating cycle of familiar sports correspondents to talk about a recently released Netflix Sports series. The podcast will feature hot takes, deep analysis, games, and intimate conversations. Be sure to watch, listen, and subscribe to the Netflix Sports Club Podcast on YouTube, Spotify, Tudum, or wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes on Fridays every other week.…
المحتوى المقدم من Simon Sweetman. يتم تحميل جميع محتويات البودكاست بما في ذلك الحلقات والرسومات وأوصاف البودكاست وتقديمها مباشرة بواسطة Simon Sweetman أو شريك منصة البودكاست الخاص بهم. إذا كنت تعتقد أن شخصًا ما يستخدم عملك المحمي بحقوق الطبع والنشر دون إذنك، فيمكنك اتباع العملية الموضحة هنا https://ar.player.fm/legal.
المحتوى المقدم من Simon Sweetman. يتم تحميل جميع محتويات البودكاست بما في ذلك الحلقات والرسومات وأوصاف البودكاست وتقديمها مباشرة بواسطة Simon Sweetman أو شريك منصة البودكاست الخاص بهم. إذا كنت تعتقد أن شخصًا ما يستخدم عملك المحمي بحقوق الطبع والنشر دون إذنك، فيمكنك اتباع العملية الموضحة هنا https://ar.player.fm/legal.
You can read the text below — and/or click on the arrow above to listen to the podcast of the story (also available on Sweetman Podcast on Spotify, Amazon, Apple and wherever you get your podcasts) Michaela remembers when things were different. She is thinking this while winding the spool of tape from her cassette back into itself with a trusty pencil. Who even uses pencils these days she thinks as she slots the tape into the stereo’s open deck and though the sound crumbles into place at first, soon she is listening to Tori Amos singing her birthday-cake cabaret about chasing nuns in the yard, running naked, unmasked, while it’s raining. At least the music takes her places — lets her live thirty years ago, transports her in some sense. What good is now? Where is the magic in this exact world? Ben takes the book from the shelf, sees the inscription to himself — he really met the author, they had a beer, they had a chat. And after that, he took the book home, to live with the words some more. A while from then, a baby needed nappies, a downsizing took place as well, so he sold the book for scraps of change. He missed it more than any of the others. But then — what chance — he found it again at one of those charity sales with the cardboard boxes that heave and all the airport novels no longer going anywhere. He paid the ten bucks to fill a bag; donated back everything else he bought — all he wanted was that one. It sits with the small handfuls of other books he never sold and never will. It gives him something to hold on to still. It’s good to have something to hold. And to hold onto the story around the book as well as the one within it. Ben met the author. Did you know that? Ron reckons records are always making a comeback, because every time a new streaming platform opens, several old albums disappear down the back of the metaphorical couch — deep into the metaphysical void. It’s nice to be the keeper of the same old memories that re-enter the consciousness when the revolutions reach thirty-three and one third every minute. Ron knows he can never undo the damage he’s done, the needle strikes down into the groove, and to reverse the record would only make more of a mess. He knows that. But tears deserve a soundtrack. And so, there is still — and always — some happiness this way. Stella lifts the photo album out from the box from under the bed. She blows the dust from the cover, and studies the inside of the folder: A piece of paper with only remnants of its original sellotape but the years have pushed the paper to the plastic, a tighter bond than many of the people in the pictures have with each other now. But you have to honour the dead. And the passing of time is just another casualty in this war we are all fighting regardless of sign-up. Stella sees her parents making nice, and their parents all standing proud. She sees herself, though can barely recognise the place or why she’s dressed that way. She has a box of letters from her brother Evan. But she could never read his writing. Nina doesn’t think that Netflix is the enemy as such, but everything’s made to look the same. It’s all designed to be viewed as if a shop window, but no one has thought much further than lining up the product. She has bought back DVDs from the garage sales and second-hand stores. She has exact copies of films she once owned; she has movies she’s never seen and may never get to either, but she has them as a finite collection, a way of making some sense in the world. A way of cutting through the infinite. Some days feel just like a knife. It’s good to be able to stab into the finite. Wiremu holds the feathers from the skirt his mother wore for school performances. Only a few remain. He put them in his hair before they made him take them out, before they made him answer to William, before he knew the rest of the skirt was rushed out in a box with anything else that suddenly felt leftover. Wiremu strokes the feathers. He says his mum meant more than feathers but now this is all he has. He says don’t ever call him William. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Start writing today. Use the button below to create a Substack of your own Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe…
Here’s three brand new poems from me at the regular Poetry in Motion open mic at the Fringe Bar in Wellington. My first time reading there in a couple of months. I debuted three new poems which you can click on below for text versions if you’d like to read them first, or after, or read along with the recording: .They are called The Centre-Right is Ick , Strange Hours , and Rip Me Apart Like A Shark in the Shallows: So make of that what you will — just trying to keep my hand in reading poems, as I’m more concentrating on stories, and even story reading this year. But good to be back at the Poetry in Motion event, always like it there. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Start writing today. Use the button below to create a Substack of your own Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe…
Just mucking around with stories — so these are two different readings of the same story. The audio and video are separate recordings, so you can listen to the audio above on its own, or with reading the story below. Or you can watch the video. Or any combo… Click: They’d met at a café. First impressions were awful. But by coffee number three, things had reset. She’d spilled a drink on his lap. He laughed it off. She blushed and grinned. It was already a story. The click was instant. Like a fridge magnet finding its place. A done deal. One month later, they were living together — one main room and one bedroom, a third flatmate named Mike. A quiet mechanic who mostly kept to himself. Cheap rent, just for the couch, but every little bit helped them. Tama didn’t have much of a job — calling himself a musician was generous. A keyboard player in a band that scored bar gigs twice a month if lucky. Miri was at polytech, studying photography. She worked harder than him, that was clear. Mike often loaned Tama money. One night, Mike brought his workmates around for drinks. Miri wandered through, taking photos, ignoring a few crude shouts. Tama came home when the drinking games were mid-chant, whisked her away for coffee and cake. It was over a slice of pecan pie that she told him. “I’m pregnant.” Tama choked. Coughed. Wiped his mouth. “Come again?” “You won’t actually need to”, she said, with a laugh. “Two months,” she said more calmly. “What the fuck are we gonna do?” His voice cracked. “Become parents.” He stared at the table. His chest fluttered with something between panic and awe. “Seriously, Miri…” “I’ll finish my course. You’ll get a job. We’ll figure it out.” And somehow, that calmed him. They hugged in the middle of the café. Someone clapped. They left grinning. Back home, Mike and the other mechanics were stoned in the lounge, listening to Genesis. Tama muted Phil mid-scream. The word “mama” left hanging in the air that night. “I’m gonna be a dad!? Mike blinked. “Huh?” “We’re pregnant!” Miri confirmed. “Fuckin’ A. Wanna toke?” “No thanks,” Tama said. “Big night. Early to bed for me.” He looked at Miri. “Coming?” “In a sec,” she said. “I wanna finish this roll.” He left. Mike turned to her. “You wanna toke?” “No thanks,” she said. “Weren’t you listening? I’m pregnant.” “So?” “I’m having a kid, Mike. I can’t smoke pot.” He shrugged. Then she walked over. Took his arm. She whispered, “it’s yours”. “What?” “The baby. Mike.” He stared at her. “It was one time.” “I know!” “I was wasted. That never even… I didn’t even…” He trailed off. “Fuck.” “I couldn’t tell him.” “You should’ve. It was just once!” “I can’t lose him. He’s the one. He’ll be an amazing dad. You know it.” He slumped into the couch. Ready now for bed also. “What are you asking me?” “Nothing. Just your silence.” He nodded. “Okay.” “And you’ll move out. Before the baby’s born.” Another nod. “I’ll never ask for money. This is my life. His life. We’ll make it work. He doesn’t need to know.” “What about a paternity test?” She slapped him. He didn’t flinch. Just looked at the floor. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll move out.” Four months later, he did. Tama had paid him back. Gigs were steadier. He’d started giving piano lessons too. Miri finished her course, took a job at a front desk. They turned half of their bedroom into a nursery. It was working. But the baby monitor wasn’t. Tama could not work out how to set that up. Trina arrived, no troubles. Seven pounds, four ounces. The couple wept. Mike visited once. Brought flowers. Held the baby longer than Miri expected. “She’s got her father’s eyes,” Miri said. And her father smiled.Tama had to get ready for rehearsal. But first, one more check on the baby. Mike whispered, “You think he’ll ever know?” “No”, Miri hissed. Mike nodded. “He’s a good dad.” Miri smiled. “He is her father.” Tama was holding Trina close, just listening. Mostly awe, not much panic. The heartbeat a tiny miracle. The baby monitor buzzed softly. Voices. Words fading in and out, but one part he heard clearly. He is her father. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Start writing today. Use the button below to create a Substack of your own Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe…
I haven’t made a bit of music for a while. Some would say I never have — including after hearing any of the pieces. Fair enough. With that in mind, here’s my most recent. A wee piece I call New Coat . I guess I tried to address the question no one was asking — what would happen if Moby and Robert Miles collaborated after they’d both been hit in the head a bit? My (“musical”) answer is above. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe…
I always knew when my grandfather had come home too boozed, or sometimes it was even on a night when he’d just drift in his chair. The whiskey had done a number on him again. There’d be some noise and then my grandmother would shout out, “Boil the combs!” Grandad was a good sort otherwise. He made me a go-kart out of old boxes, but when the other kids could go much faster, he took the engine from his leaf-blower and hid it under the hood. He said, “put your foot on this button and just ease off if you’re going around a corner because there are no breaks”. He also said, “the other kids are stupid anyway”. And we laughed together for a long time after he said things like that. Grandma and Granddad liked to say that they ‘took me in’ and I never knew what that meant, at least not for ages. My dad wasn’t really into being a dad, they said. My mum could not cope alone. She moved up north to ‘better herself’, and that hurt the first few times I heard it, because I always wondered what was better than having a son. But it turned out she was going to go back to school to get some qualifications. She started writing letters, and as I got a bit older, I reckon the letters improved a bit too, so school was obviously working pretty good for her the second time around. Granny and Grandpa were good sorts, but I know she didn’t like it much when he went out drinking, or just had too much in his chair at home. But he seemed to have his reasons, reckoned sometimes she went out late alone without him when I was asleep, but also that I really didn’t need to know much more about that. We were quite a funny wee gang. I got teased a bit in school sometimes by people saying who is that old man or that old lady, or just who are those stupid old people that pick you up. But I just ignored that. Like a lot of what I am saying here, and a lot more I’m choosing not to say, it hurt a bit at the time. And then it didn’t. But I had good times with them both, and it felt like I was just living in a different world. Helping to pickle beetroot and lemons in the kitchen with Grandma. Helping to grow vegetables in the hydroponic greenhouse out back in the yard with Granddad. All of it completely normal to me, at least until we talked about what we did in the weekends first period Monday. I certainly never mentioned the combs. I knew that would take some explaining. One time, Granddad stumbled into my room and I thought he was lost, but he said to just shove over, and he pushed me close to the wall and he just fell asleep in the bed behind me. But pressed right up against me. It was fine, I guess. I felt safe. I just thought it was weird. And his breath smelled a bit like if someone had been sick in a cup of tea. So I hugged the wall instead of him. And another time, Grandma came in, but she was not going to let me sleep in the bed with her and told me to get on the floor. I tried to say that I was comfortable, but I was also pretty sleepy, so must have just crawled into place on the floor. I woke up and I was curled into a ball like a cat, under a huge rug, and also on top of a fluffy rug too. So it was actually really comfortable, and a little bit funny. I didn’t remember being there, like how I got there at all, until Granny said. And it was actually really weird because she was already up and making breakfast, so I thought at first I’d done some silly sleepwalking or something. But Granny believed in telling the truth. Most of the time anyway. And definitely whenever I asked. Which is why I had to find out why she would yell, “boil the combs”, and what did that even mean? She said it was a throwback to when she’d be woken up by her mum yelling the same thing whenever her dad came home drunk. Her mum would shout “boil the combs”, and the kids in the house would get up, put a pot of water on, and with the cast iron pot cooling off the fire, they’d then place two hair combs in, so as to be sure no lice were trapped, and the combs were nice and clean. They would then help their mum tie their dad into bed, so he didn’t fall out. He’d come home drunk and want to do one of two things that started with ‘F’ apparently. I didn’t really understand that part. But that’s what Granny said. She reckoned the plan her mum had worked out was that if they tied him into bed he couldn’t move, nor be a danger to anyone, and also he wouldn’t fall out and end up on his face on the cold wooden floor too. But the genius part of the plan was that once tied into bed, they would all have a go at doing his hair, combing it back and tidying it while he snored. The two combs were so that it was a game, Granny reckoned. And her and her two sisters and brother would take turns. They thought it was so much fun. And got a real giggle she said. The idea was that when her father woke, he had no idea what had happened but could tell by his hair that it must have been a trouble-free night. That all made so much sense, and sounded funny, and a little bit sweet, but also a little bit weird, and even quite scary, but Granny said that they all knew what they were doing and had fun, and it wasn’t until quite long after her father had died that her mother explained a bit more about how serious it was sometimes, and how the “boil the combs” scream wasn’t quite a code, or a password, but then again it also almost was. Her mum couldn’t always get out of bed straight away, and sometimes the kids had to do all of the boiling and even get some rope to bring in to their mum in the bedroom. Sometimes she was standing up in her nightgown, and was in the corner of the room and their father was yelling a bit about how he was angry at the world for so many things. “Kids can be clever”, I said to my Granny after all that. And she agreed that they can, and reckoned that’s why I didn’t need to know too much more about anything else related to why she still yelled out “boil the combs”. She just said it was some sort of throwback to her childhood, and definitely nothing to with Granddad at all. She also said it was smart of me to not come in when I heard it. To just do my best to get back to sleep. Things were different these days, she said. And she hadn’t married her father. She definitely hadn’t, no matter what Mrs. Waters across the road said. Things were fine most of the time she also said. And I wondered why she had said those last two things. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Start writing today. Use the button below to create a Substack of your own Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe…
We are back with the tenth episode of We All Float Down Here — A Stephen King podcast . Our second of 2025 is the King’s first YA title, The Eyes of The Dragon, and since there’s no film version, as yet (and unlikely to ever be), and because it’s related — age-wise, we also dip into his graphic novelette, The Cycle of the Werewolf , and its ropey film adaptation, Silver Bullet . The podcast goes out on YouTube first and foremost — so we’d love you to like and subscribe over there . Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe…
I haven’t made a bit of music for a while. Some would say I never have — including after hearing any of the pieces. Fair enough. With that in mind, here’s my most recent. A wee piece I call Dark Winds . Might use it for some spoken word at some point, but for now, here it is. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe…
When George Harrison died, I helped move a friend from her flat in Elizabeth St to her new place then in Tasman St. From Mt Vic to Mt Cook sounds like the title to a down-scaling book but this was just how it was back in 2001. We scrubbed the walls to get the smoke stains off from where the pictures had been and all the while the radio was playing Beatles songs. I was on the heavy lifting, helping the removal men when they arrived. I was lifting tables and chairs, computer desks and various things down the alleyway to the street front. It was baking hot; I’d played a gig the night before and stayed up late drinking whatever was in the house as a toast to the Quiet Beatle. My hangover was getting a workout. The removal truck arrived, driven by the world’s rudest man. He was instantly a caricature. Loud and dumb and full of himself. And his truck was in the middle of the street – a one-way road. He figured everyone could wait because he was on a paid job. And when he did, grudgingly, move the truck, he backed it into someone’s car. A neighbour popped his head in to say he’d seen what happened. The moving man stuck his neck out to tell the man to forget what he saw if he wanted to keep all his fingers. Then there was a car of women beeping. Beeping. Trying to tell this man to move. I was head-down and just bringing out the loads of stuff. But I said, at one point, that maybe he ought to move his truck. He laughed maniacally and then went to meet the women in the car. He bent down, leaned in and hoiked a giant spit right into the face of the driver. His co-worker laughed, then corrected himself, shook his head, was mortified. And he asked the lunatic, “why did you do that?” The meathead replied that it was the “the dirtiest thing I could think to do” . The radio belted out I Me Mine and Here Comes The Sun and Taxman and While My Guitar Gently Weeps. All those great George Harrison-penned Beatles songs. We heard a few of the solo gems too – obviously My Sweet Lord and All Those Years Ago, that cover of Got My Mind Set on You and a Travelling Wilburys song – or two. But this was the end of the line. A guy spat in a woman’s face because he couldn’t be bothered to move his truck. Because he was sure that he was the boss. Because he knew that he was large – and if not in charge he was still the king. At least of anything that mattered in his world. We were mortified. Horrified. We were stunned to silence – and didn’t feel good about that. We had a story. A weird story. And it’s one we’ll always have. Me and the friend I helped move that day…were married a few years on, we’ve moved houses a handful of times since that occasion. We’ve streamlined all we can but the mess continues to grow, the stuff we don’t need builds up around us. And we have a son now that wants to know any story about The Beatles that we can think of. One day, he can read this. And make of it what he will. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe…
It was my first time reading at The Office in Newtown, a regular get-together for some, but a new venue for it. I read two new poems — including one so new I wrote it the morning of the day I read it. The other is a couple of weeks old, both were new to being read aloud. They have a musical guest and a guest-poet but the first half of the programme is all-comers on an open mic. So check it out above to hear my two new poems. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe…
Here’s three brand new poems from me at the regular Poetry in Motion open mic at the Fringe Bar in Wellington. Where all of last year and even into early this year I have been rehearsing and showcasing material from The Richard Poems , this was my first time in years reading brand new material. So the three poems captured here are being read for the very first time.They are called Worlds Colliding , Ex/Terminate and Shake What Ya Mama Gave You . In the case of Ex/Terminate , I haven’t even uploaded it to Substack, but you can read Worlds Colliding — — and Shake What Ya Mama Gave You — — you know, for those that like to read along at home. Anyway, new poems, the start of reading new poems out and about again hopefully. Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe…
I’ve mentioned my little book, The Richard Poems a bunch here. Launched in November last year. I’ve shared a few (audio) readings along the way to publication — and then a couple that have come out since the release: But there at the top you have a video poem, I’m reading Summerslam, 1988 — a piece from early in the book. A scene-setter I guess. I also will include here a bonus video of a handful of poems from the book — being read for the first time, and as you’ll see (and hear) chosen on the fly: This Friday, Feb 21 , I am taking some of these poems, and many more, and performing them on stage with a band. If you buy a ticket, all the money will be donated to Women’s Refuge. Just $10 a ticket. You can even watch some rehearsal footage to get an idea of how it’s going to sound: Buy your ticket/s to the show! Buy a copy of the book Let me know if you’d like to see more video content, or hear more audio content. Start writing today. Use the button below to create a Substack of your own Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe…
The final rehearsal for our show “DICK” is in the can — here’s a couple of sneak-peek clips; we were in the main room at Photospace Gallery today, where we’ll be delivering the show this Friday, Feb 21, 7.30pm. A reminder to buy your tickets online from The Fringe website — it’s $10 and that money goes to Women’s Refuge. There are no door sales on the night . Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe…
I popped along to the New Zealand Society of Authors — Wellington’s first event of 2025, an open mic at Undercurrent bookshop. There were all sorts of readings from all sorts of readings, including from novels and short stories and memoir and children’s books, and poetry. For my five-minute set, I read four poems from my latest collection, The Richard Poems . And you can listen to the recording here. It was also — of course — a chance to plug the upcoming show: Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe…
We are back with the ninth episode of We All Float Down Here — A Stephen King podcast . Our first of 2025 is the classic Pet Sematar y , and the slightly less classic film adaptations (plural). Will they ever get this book right on screen? We think not. The podcast goes out on YouTube first and foremost — so we’d love you to like and subscribe over there . Sounds Good! is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. Thanks for reading Sounds Good! ! This post is public so feel free to share it. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe…
Another rehearsal, so a few more teaser clips of the show developing… On Friday, February 21, I’ll be performing poems from my latest book as part of a Fringe Festival show : The show is taking place at Photospace Gallery in Courtenay Place, Wellington, at 7.30pm. I’m being backed by musicians John Kingston and James Gilberd of the duo Filtersphere. Their ambient, improvised wash of music is the perfect soundscape for my Richard Reimagining — a kind of poetry remix where I take about a third of the poems in the book and re-arrange them to tell the same story-arc of the poetry sequence’s narrative, but in a whole new shape. We are rehearsing the material to build up an idea of how it will go on the night. And I’m really thrilled with it so far. I couldn’t have better support and understanding and intuition from my musician pals. Anyway, work in progress, but have a look and let me know what you think. And maybe see you there on the night? Or tell your friends in the Wellington vicinity. See below for the details again about the show, in a link. And also there’s a previous rehearsal clip to click on if you missed it at the time, or wish to compare. Get full access to Sounds Good! at simonsweetman.substack.com/subscribe…
مرحبًا بك في مشغل أف ام!
يقوم برنامج مشغل أف أم بمسح الويب للحصول على بودكاست عالية الجودة لتستمتع بها الآن. إنه أفضل تطبيق بودكاست ويعمل على أجهزة اندرويد والأيفون والويب. قم بالتسجيل لمزامنة الاشتراكات عبر الأجهزة.