It's 4 am on a Friday night (or rather Saturday morning). I am walking along the damp, cold streets of Tartu, heading home after a heavy night out - Priit's birthday party, followed by hipster night at the Rock Club (Godber is right - the most infuriating thing about indie music is that songs start out really well, but instantly turn into the same boring three-chord background to a whiny vocal) and concluding at Trehv. After wine, vodka-cranberry, two pints of vodka & energy drink, and a glass of Bacardi Razz & ginger ale (brilliant combo, try it) I am neither sleepy nor miserably drunk; in fact I am pleased with myself, and with the realization that I am in fact the sort of person that stays out with friends until 4 am. I just turned 23, for some reason I care about such things.
And as I make my way through a mix of old wooden houses, Soviet apartment blocks and shiny new concrete & glass buildings, with my breath curling in the air in front of me, what do I hear?
Beautiful, man. Bloody beautiful.