themesong 9/3: hot in the city

The last carefree summer I had was in 2005. It was right after my sophomore year at Northwestern, and I was working a few hours a day at a place that made bike shoes, and the rest of the time I was wandering around Evanston and Chicago, soaking in the warmth, laying on the beach, hitting up Intonation Festival, drinking a bit too much, and picking up a smoking habit (oops). And in those glorious half-drunk beachbound summer afternoons, I listened to an awful lot of this song. 

The lyrics are vintage Decemberists, and the music is joyous, and one hot summer night I danced in a dusty field full of hipsters as the Decemberists played this a few yards away.

There is a road that meets the road that goes to my house 
And how the green grows there 
And we've got special boots to beat the path to my house 
And it's careful and it's careful when I'm there 

And I say your uncle was a crooked French-Canadian 
And he was gut-shot running gin 
And how his guts were all suspended in his fingers 
And how he held 'em, how he held 'em, held 'em in 

And the water rolls down the drain 
The water rolls down the drain 
Oh, what a lonely thing 
In a lonely drain 

July, July, July!
It never seemed so strange

This is the story of the road that goes to my house 
And what ghosts there do remain 
And all the troughs that run the length and breadth of my house 
And the chickens how they rattle chicken chains 

And we'll remember this when we are old and ancient 
Though the specifics might be vague 
And I'll say your camisole was a sprightly light magenta 
When in fact it was a nappy bluish gray 

And the water rolls down the drain 
The blood rolls down the drain 
O, what a lonely thing 
In a blood-red drain 

July, July, July! 
It never seemed so strange!