Dear Kooks,

I’m on to you and your quiet endeavors.  Your “ooh la’s” and your “sha la la’s” won’t work on me.  You’ve been echoing out of my car stereo for four years, but I’ve seen you up close now, and I’m no fallen angel. If it wasn’t for those puppy dog eyes and quick-step dance moves, Luke Pritchard, you wouldn’t be so dreamy.  You might not be so rhythmic if it wasn’t for your musical mates, their red suits and sloppy hair.

I see how they fall for you under high-pitched screams and restless waving arms.  Don’t get me wrong.  I played along.  But just know I could see up your skirt all night like the sixth-grade fatty with mirrors on his oxford toes.  You flirt.  And you’re good at it because of that accent.  You know what girls like so you single them out in the front row and let them know you’re eying ‘em.  Would you have eyed me if I had been screaming, sweaty at the front?

I wonder, is your pleasant balance too good to be true?  One of you hops around like Elvis Presley gone indie and sh-sh-sh-showers us with lyrics while the rest of you rock in your places, looking up only when it’s time to build that soft harmony.  Is your foursome plenty-comfortable on that party-striped platform?  Are three of you shy or is this just your way?  Does your front man crave attention or is he just the missing piece of the puzzle?  Because either way, you are all each others’ heart beats.  I see no tension but it makes me wonder what goes on beyond the curtain.

If not more than ever, I’m still a Kooks fan.  You must know what you’re doing. ; )



Ps: I took a roll of film at the show that was way too underexposed…gonna try and manipulate them and post later…