Below The Knee Length Dresses

Confession (F. Spassky)

With age, duration of morning Mass in the Byzantine rite became a pain for Father Grigori. So now it was over, savored it with relief some rest by taking his breakfast.
While eating he looked out the window again went to the cemetery empty of visitors. A beautiful sun shining above its residents dead and the sky of the Ile-de-France seemed like cleaned every cloud. Smiling in his beard, the priest took pleasure in imagining the archangel Gabriel in the process of engaging in this work, armed with a giant sponge
divine ... The coffee did him good and he enjoyed the bread with honey, his strength gradually returned. He put the footsteps of his snack and went knocking at Count Savinkov, who ran the administration: four funerals today. Obviously, in the church adjoining the cemetery, what could there be another, Apart from the Sunday Mass for the few Orthodox in the region? He would have liked, though, if only from time to time, say for a baby that accompanied this exorcism, during the baptism, he entered the community of believers ... a regret that probably Lord has not blessed his union with Prascovia whose fragile health had deprived children. He sighed: first burial at 10 am, he had ample time to prepare the chapel and visit, as every day, his wife.
When he came trotting to the church, the cemetery was already open the public. He saw families from reaching the flowers on the graves, usually armed with a bucket, a watering can and some small gardening tools. Some tourists also seeking the graves of famous people. Those who crossed his tall figure in a cassock greeted him, he sometimes asked his blessing. Father Grigory stepped out, exchanged a few words with those he knew, sometimes in Russian, some in French.

Every morning, making his turn, he wanted to ensure the welfare of all those souls who had been entrusted. He liked to imagine them like little flames floating above each grave
... He had his itinerary, he sometimes changed as and when new "arrivals". For several months he began with the fresh grave of Ivan Bunin, Bulgakov and the Father, who had been her spiritual father. From there he branched off to the Prince Yusupov, stopped a moment and begged the Lord to give the criminal his soul. He then went to the memorial at Gallipoli, then the square Cossack, remembering the pain of defeat fighters who came to die so far from home. It lacked not come to greet his friend Prince Lvov and his greatness of soul. Finally, he sat on the little bench that was adjacent to the tomb and rested Prascovia Nataliévna. A large birch branches had come down almost to earth and hid it a little corner of Russia planted on French soil. Only birds twittering light disturbed the silence that hung over the cemetery.
The grave of the deceased wife of Father Grigori was simple: a mound of earth planted with flowers topped by a wooden Orthodox cross, with accommodation for a night to oil. He stood there a moment to think about him telling his priestly life so much harder now since she was party.

That day, he was lost in thought when he glimpsed between the branches that hid the one who approached the tomb three locations there, on the left. He was tall, even huge, a giant, blonde, in her sixties perhaps, who walked with a limp. For a moment he turned his head in the direction where sat the priest as to verify that he was alone. Father Grigory foresaw the terrible gash on the cheek ( a saber? ) and the strange blue eyes, a blue so pale they appear white, like a blind man. That man, he had never seen; Father Grigory, who had a remarkable memory, despite his nearly eighty years, was safe. Perhaps he had rarely, if at times when the priest was busy? But anyway, could not know all the visitors to the cemetery ...

Returning to his thoughts, he remembered how Prascovia had been devoted, loving and found even more than usual, Catholics cruel to impose the celibacy for their priests. Cruel and stupid: how to show love the next while being deprived of one's neighbor is more, namely that of a woman? It will always lack a human dimension to the Catholic priesthood, he thought: that of the flesh. This flesh that Catholics are obliged to repress or sublimate into a more or less pagan aesthetic ...
Father Grigory had reached this point of his reflections, when they were interrupted by the sound of sobbing.
was the man next door who was crying. He sat on the tomb of cement and the priest saw his shoulders rise spasmodically.
Accustomed to the pain accompanying grief, Father Grigory knew generally find words of comfort. But then something kept him from getting up. Without doubt he had subconsciously noted that man when he approached the grave, had not signed and he had concluded that the benefits of religion would perhaps not welcome ... ;
Only the tears themselves, was their incongruity with respect to what the priest had seen the man who put him uncomfortable: the look, pace, strength that emanated from person, the facial injury and lameness, Father suspected a soldier, a drive that had to deal with extreme suffering. What pain could put a man like this? " Mentally
Father Grigori sketched a blessing to this strange and parishioner, after a hello to his wife, quietly left his shelter and went to the chapel to prepare to celebrate his first funeral of the day.
The chorus commissioned by the family was already there and Deacon Alexander as well.

This deacon was famous in the Russian community of Paris: puny and stunted, he looked older than a hundred years, moving with difficulty and ranged dangerously during long ceremonies Orthodox, so that the faithful stood always ready to pick it up, as it seemed to crumble at the first breath of wind. But this impression only lasted until his first speech sung voice which was heard when a huge and amazing bass voice, deep and powerful as an earthquake, out of this puny and sickly body. This inevitably gave rise to smiles in the audience.
This ceremony is no exception to the rule. It took place, majestic and beautiful. And when the choir sang "The rest alongside the saints ... " few could resist the excitement.
were buried an elderly lady, a countess Almazine, prominent figure of the Russian environment. The audience was large, there was a lack of space inside the chapel and a party was forced to stay outside. It finally closed the casket and win a procession formed to the place of burial.
ceremonies ended, Father Grigory lingered long with family and friends, and when he returned to the sacristy to take off his vestments everyone was gone.
is making a last lap in the chapel he thought he saw empty. The man with the scar faded and the light was there.

He saluted Father Grigori head:
- Batiouchka , I confess ...
- The confessions are normally held on Tuesdays and Saturdays from 14h to 19h.
- Please ...
- It's so urgent? When was your last confession?
- I do not know. Maybe fifty years ago ... It surprised no
only half the priest. He was tempted to postpone an interview he guessed long and complicated, but changed his mind, dimly perceive as an imminent danger to this man.
- I see ... Are you thinking at all?
- No, my Father .. Finally, I do not know ...
- Do you remember what the confession and what purpose it serves?
- To be absolved of his sins?
- While approaching ... What is your name?
- Procopius Procopius ... Fedorovich.
Father Grigori approached one of the great icons of Christ Chapel, offsetting the side, turning his back:
- Kneel before me and the icon, "he said.
"Child well-liked in the Holy Spirit, Fedorovich Procope, the priest began , you did well to come to the holy penance for it, in fact, as a baptistery spiritual, you will wash your sins soul and you will be cured, as by a heavenly medicine ... "
When the priest had finished the prayers, the ritual was intended to prepare the penitent confession, he put his hand on his head
- What have you been so urgent to confess who could not wait after a lifetime without absolution?
- My Father, I killed a man yesterday .
Father Grigori hardly swallowed his saliva
- And who was this man?
- This man had murdered my mother, my father, my grandfather and made my sister mad.
- Tell my son ...
- was at the beginning of the civil war in my village in Ukraine, among Zaporozhtzi ... In the region we were all to Makhno.
- ( Lord God, "thought the priest, an anarchist! )
- The Batko made life difficult for white on their backs, preventing Denikin to march on Moscow. While the general has ordered the "make an example" in this population who hid, inform and protect the anarchists. One morning a detachment of cadets arrived very early in our village. Our fighters were absent, campaigning against the whites, only a few were left injured, my father, old, children and women. They made everyone leave the house and we have gathered on the square the mill. Then they drew up ten pointed stakes they coated the ends with grease. The officer who commanded them, a guy with Asian features, was passed among us without dismounting and he chose ten people, "you", "you" .... The Junkers have captured them, impaled them on stakes and forced us to attend to their death. There were among those executed my father, my mother and my grandfather ... They have long agonized. Then they selected young women and raped them. But the officer also took my sister. Thirteen years ago ... All the detachment is passed over the body, several times, it lasted all morning ...
- The White have done this?
- Yes my Father. In the village of Poulkovine, on the morning of March 3, 1919. We told jokes about aristocrats, their sense of honor, their struggle "in the name of the Tsar and God." You bet ... In truth, they were abominable cruelty, worse than the Bolsheviks! Home were shot and decapitated one saber important people, the exploiters, the chiefs, the officers, but never Batko Makhno would permit such cruelty, especially the common people!
- (Perhaps well as some priests, Father Grigory thought). Then ?
- Before leaving they slaughtered all the cattle, traced with a knife into the flesh of dead letter "A" to "anarchist" and set fire to houses. When our fighters returned to the village, a few days later, they were far and it was too late to pursue them. My sister had lost her mind: she did not recognize anyone but me, no longer spoke, was still prostrate in the corner, barely ate. The Batko heard my story, he came to the village to talk to me and asked me to give Maroussia with an aunt in his village Gulyai Polye. She stayed for the duration of civil war. As at fifteen I was already very big and strong, he took me with him, I was part of a hundred horsemen who formed his bodyguard. During these campaigns, every fight, I tried the white officer with Asian features: I examined the bodies, interrogating prisoners, in vain. Nobody seemed to know this man.
- How did the civil war ended it for you?
- After our victory over the Whites in the Crimea, Soviet Russia launched military red on us in hopes of liquidating the Ukrainian anarchist movement. When they reached the vicinity of Gulyai Polye attempt to capture or kill Makhno, the Batko who was recovering from injuries and had not participated in the capture of the Crimea, ordered the evacuation of civilians who wished and retired fighting. From that day I have not left a foot Maroussia; a mile we cons they have inflicted many defeats, but their reserves of men seemed endless. They threw us against the Latvian regiments, and Siberian. We relented, but managed to enter Poland where everyone has dispersed. The Batko was taken prisoner. My sister and I are hiding in Poland, then we crossed the German border illegally. From Germany, we managed to get in touch with the French anarchists, the same people who will take charge later return Makhno. With their help and their involvement with socialist ministers of the cartel of the left we have entered legally in France in 1924.
- Did you always revenge in his heart?
- I would have probably managed to draw a line under these terrible years, but I constantly under the eyes Maroussia who lost every day a bit of his humanity. His condition was getting worse and no one could heal her. She passed a state of complete apathy to fits of madness when she tried to mutilate himself. Those who tried to help me at the beginning eventually waived, it was too hard. And no price I did not want her to go into an insane asylum. It did nothing more than to inflict unnecessary suffering electric shocks and I do not know what. I found a job in a workman-Panhard Levassor Ivry. To go to the factory was forced every morning to attach on Maroussia his bed and gag her so that neighbors can not hear his cries. And every time that I deliver them returning, I was trying to appease him, I washed the dirt from her, I saw again the face of this officer, my Father. And my hatred remained intact.
- Continue my son, "whispered Father Grigory
... in one breath - in 39, because of my sister, I was considered the breadwinner and I have not been mobilized. When France capitulated, I decided that we would leave the free zone. We lived in a village in the Corbières with a winemaker supporter of the anarchist movement. Those were beautiful years, despite the war. The most beautiful I've known.
- Why?
- Because Maroussia started to get better. Is it because of the country, the outdoors, the climate of the south or the fact that I left her alone anymore? but began to emerge from its prison and mental attention to what was happening around her. One day a stray kitten came to take refuge in his arms. I think that was the turning point: I saw her suddenly laugh for the first time in years. They passed each other and do inseparable. A miracle happened. She still did not speak but really began to connect a little: a few words, gestures, expressions ... At the winemaker there was quite a transition, many English anarchists. Against the food and shelter, everyone working on the field. Apart from the vine, there was a large vegetable garden, orchard, chickens, rabbits ... it is also focusing Maroussia doing his best.
- But your sister getting better, did you always desire revenge?
- It was still very fragile. Regular spectrum of the man reappeared If I was not close, no man she did not know could not come within ten yards without it starts to scream in terror, scratching his face ...
- You have you not thought of taking a wife?
- Oh, you know, women who have approached me running fled when they realized the burden that was my sister ...
- Is this the only reason my son said softly Father Grigori?
- The truth is that there was no place in my heart and in my head for another woman. She was beautiful, you may not know, even the worst moments of his illness, when she was completely off this look ... And for some mysterious reason, she did not age. At forty years ago it looked like a girl: not a wrinkle, not one hair white, firm flesh, a peach complexion ... Whenever I had a little money I buy him all the clothes that I could to it is beautiful.
- Your thoughts vis-à-vis her, they were always pure?
Man marked a pause, then:
- Not always, my Father, I confess ...
- Your thoughts only ruthlessly insisted the priest?
- Only
thoughts ... - ... Continue
- We stayed two more years in the Corbières after the war ended, the winemaker and his wife had become our friends. Unfortunately, they died in the car both in a stupid accident. Their children no longer wanted us on the property and came back with Maroussia in Paris. I found a tiny apartment to rent in the nineteenth arrondissement and a job as night watchman at a warehouse in oriental carpets. Provided they do not go out, my sister was left alone and the building superintendent, a good woman, she looked after.
- You've finally found the white officer, right?
- Yes, Father. If time allowed, the rest days, I took Maroussia often walk to the Buttes-Chaumont. And one day it happened: when she held my arm at the bend of an alley, she suddenly started screaming when he saw a couple in front and pointing the finger at the man. Like her, I recognized him immediately, its stiffness and its military features of Asiatic despite his thirty years older. He had not changed, just the skull that had stripped. I would have recognized even in hell ... But now, Maroussia terrorized me dropped his arm and ran away, I quickly did more sight and I started running to try to catch up, planting is the couple surprised. I told you Maroussia not age: it ran like a rabbit, although I was handicapped by an old injury. I had to go around the Buttes-Chaumont before seeing the crowd in the street Botzaris. The broken body of Maroussia lay under a moving truck in a pool of blood ... Police was there, the chauffeur moaned: "She threw herself under my wheels, I could not do anything ..".

The man was silent.
- Continue with my son, continue ...
- She is buried here in this cemetery ...
- And then?
- Then I went back every Sunday to the Buttes-Chaumont in the hope of seeing him again. And kill him ... I must admit, my Father, I prayed to the Lord, I begged him to let me find it. And he finally fulfill my prayers after four years ..
- Blasphemy! ... Only the devil can encourage such a design! And how did it end? ...
- I finally saw a Sunday and quietly followed him to his house. He lived in a building on Rue de Flandres. So I watched regularly, waiting a favorable opportunity ... And it finally came last night, he went for a walk alone to the channel Ourcq. On the Waterfront, at this point, the night is deserted and poorly lit. I got behind him, I strangled him with his hands, he has not even had time to scream. I threw her body in the canal at about the height of the lift bridge.
- did you feel?
- Relief ... And also a big gap: Maroussia this time was really dead ...

The man was silent again. Settled a long silence, the priest, helpless, cast a glance round to icons, seeming to beg their assistance. They were there in the dark gold of the chapel as so many visible and invisible presences. The man was sobbing again. Father Grigory pondered a moment.

- I think, my son, you've suffered enough, so I'll give you absolution. In the light of God you will leave, but not with respect to the justice of men, remember you. "That Jesus Christ our Lord and our God, by His grace, His mercy and love for mankind, forgive you, my child, Fedorovich Procopius, all your sins, and I, his unworthy priest, by the power that he gave me, I forgive all your sins forgiven and I worry on behalf of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen. " Go now ...

The man left the chapel and Father Grigori looked away: assassin Petliura has been acquitted, he thought he ...

Some time later the same day, May 12, 1957, was found in the canal Ourcq the corpse of a Usov Timur, a former officer in the 'White Army, died by strangulation, and an apartment in the nineteenth district of another Russian emigre named Procopius Koulpine, suicide by a gunshot. We could never solve the death of the first or understand the reasons for the second act. And nobody made the link between these two deaths.
Only an Orthodox priest of Sainte-Genevieve-des-Bois could have been established. But he was bound by the secrecy of confession.

Frederic Spassky.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Sheet Music Free Kate Nash Foundations

Sally for life . (Sandro)


Sally is often irritating, it must be said. My
Ford Thunderbird was traveling 55 miles a little (it was not the time to get caught by radar), we had just passed Austin (Texas) and through the open window, the air was a sickening sweetness. The sun was white like a saucer and one could see far but not far Jeff was gone.
In the seat of death, Sally sniffed loudly as brat girl, sipping a can of Coke. I am among those who think that people who drink Coke while driving should be hanged.
-My conversation bores you, right?, She let go.
"You have no kind of conversation, I'm afraid. But you're still beautiful, I said to have peace.

Peace is what I then ran a good part of my life without achieving anything but far recess. The things we aspire are those that recoil as we journey towards it, it's been a long time that it works well, and a bunch of people.
Sally tried once again to make up in the air stream the open window, with her hair that made waves, like a comet tail. It had yet to leave a motel 30 miles ago, where she shut herself up near an hour in the bathroom. As women age, they spend time in their bathroom.
Finally, it is perhaps where we should bury them.
I was just chatting on the theme of morose delectation, when a snake crossed the road. As a kid, I kicked the steering wheel to make the difference necessary to crush it. It was a flop-flop a little disgusting in the wheel, and in the back, I saw squirming on the spot and beat the air for nothing. And then it disappeared from my field of vision.

But that was always there, handy and light, it was Sally. Earlier, when she landed in the middle of the night in my bungalow on 57 th drive, I had just finished the manuscript of my twentieth novel. Those who have never experienced this issue can not understand. I had a baked good gin and tonic to celebrate that, alone with my old typewriter Jappy witness. It should never be completely drunk, in case he should stand out. Go to the hospital or something like that. But

This has knocked on my door, to 3:30 in the morning, it was worse than the hospital emergency. Sally was disheveled, traces of purple mascara under her eyes wet. And at the same time, the black eye and determined that I know, that the days when it is a real misfortune that the cross his path.

I was a little party, I found it hard to accommodate, but I gathered what was left of lucidity. I felt that it was better.
Without it did not say anything to see her standing there in my living room, her long legs on high heels, I realized that the troubles were return. I vaguely thought "why me?" But at the same time, I knew that this kind of question it is pointless to ask.
Why me? Probably because I have a head of destiny. Probably because I have a car with a big chest and I do not ask questions.
She went directly to the fridge to use a scotch. It's a gesture that reminded me that that's why I had transferred my home twenty years ago. She was then nineteen, was allegedly a student of letters, but it had always seemed unlikely. For her, the letters were from the Hebrew. It was wild, lively and animal and I seriously laboring on the mat room when I returned from work exhausted. She even claimed that I was the first but not the feeling I had at that time.

After me, she had married hastily with Jeff, a guy who was in oil, had an Oldsmobile, hair and short ideas, but the bulging wallet. Something between routine and inevitable, something which we had never speak again. She invited me from time to time at dinner in their large house near the derricks in the closed private employers. The one where, by dint of watering, they manage to grow the lawn in the middle of rattlesnakes.
I knocked at the door then plated gold, which she opened in negligee undulated in the air stream, said she was horribly late and shouted: "Jeff, it's there. It's Sonny, my best friend. "
I've always found the term too much, and besides, he lit a piece of mistrust in the eye of dull named Jeff. The rest of the evening was going to always answer his questions relevant, such as: "A writer is not just a job as a fag, right?" .
Or: "I understand why you Sally plated, man. It is the gold-plated its thing, not piss-copies ". He then missed a choking in his hearty laugh and I had to wait for midnight so I can finally go out, a smoke in the garden and back in my car, wondering:" Why me? ".

But tonight, in my bungalow, between sobs and a brief shot of Jack Daniel, Sally had come to tell me that Jeff was now in the trunk of his car, trash bags, that he did not feel good and now it attracts more flies.

I vaguely raised an eyebrow, but little more. Then, without stopping, like a flood, she said. How she released two rattlesnakes in the bathroom with gold-plated faucets. How the last shower of Jeff was a nice surprise. How she looked in the evening, swell and turn purple, Gasper to find the air like a goldfish that has more water. How she could have it in the evening during his thank you and tell his truths. How he had wasted his life, how she was sick of his stories stealth with his secretaries.

I watched and I wondered how could you have such hatred. Why not taking a .38 Special, like everyone else, taking care to clean the walls after. But I said nothing, because the volcanic eruptions of Sally but are intermittent lightning, and also because I was mesmerized by the sharp tip of her boots in purple lizard. I thought that a well placed shot of this stuff does not help my situation.
I still made a vague idea of surprise but not a protest, no. I just expressed my surprise, however, added that it seemed gassed them. Last month, invited to dinner, I arrived home a little early and entered the open veranda. To find standing skirt tucked, pinned by Jeff cons the fridge.
She replied, enigmatically
"Whoever spat its venom will die by the venom.
I had not insisted and tried to think about the way forward. Have wrote twenty thrillers, in these cases, it is not helping.
I did not pity it, no. The only person I could feel sorry that was me, and I passed that stage long ago.
I proceeded to transfer the package from his car to mine and headed North towards Austin. It was an idea of Sally, that, spinning in the desert. Me, I thought it was a mistake, it's still in town we would come out best.

Around 6 am, we had already crossed three cars of cops, and she wanted to stop at a motel to shower and reflect. Again, I replied that this was not a good idea, as motels were filled with surveillance cameras and credit cards leave more traces of a boar in a hunt.
But I just said it like that, without insisting. To the right order, so as not to be taken for a fool till the end.
Then we drove an hour and a half, to a hypothetical open dump that Sally knew-God knows why, to try to drop our package.
arrived there, it had rained and the Buick sank into a gray ash and gadouilleuse the most beautiful effect. Before it is fully planted, it went down to inspect the foot, it sank to just above the ankles.

corner had changed, it seems, and there was now a fence three meters high, which encircled the filth. Crows were perched on posts and contemplating the disaster with an indifferent air. It was also the rendezvous of the Wildcats. Two of them we have looked and smelt from afar: they seemed to know more about our destiny ourselves.
And then came the other idiot, a kind of vigil unlikely and plump, and mesh cap bristling with walkie-talkies, tear gas and torches, holding a Doberman who was pulling badly on his leash. I've noticed.
"Hey, love", he threw five yards. "If you are looking for a quiet place for you tripotter is not here."
It was now less than two meters, I heard his breath and he scored a time, as the old players.
Then he added: "Or should not be selfish and share a little, eh, my pretty?". He grinned while opening the fly in fatigues, and I thought that would make a hole in the ball 38 between both eyes pigs. I took a small Rüger Stainless 5 shot with me, just in case.
Fortunately, the desire has left me very quickly and I pulled Sally at arms, before she makes him jump orbits with her nails purple. Just in case, I shouted loudly "Come, Helen, we returned to San Francisco." Because it was still in one that we had seen and it was better tracks.

returned to the car, I headed south, that is to say where it came from. That's what I felt was more reasonable. Sally said nothing, I think that's when she realized she would not recover. She fell to
just the head when you crossed the "Highway Patrol" and do more sniffing. In the late afternoon, she wanted to stop again in a motel.
I said yes. In the bedroom, she dug into the bar, threw herself on the bed and began to derail. She said God also wondered what happens to him. "He is like us. He looks at our bodies with detachment. It does not exist, since it does not realize it exists."
And then also, as a kid, she asked me what it was like paradise, and if there was Bourbon.
I replied: "I do not know, we'll see on the spot".
But she did not laugh.
Without transition, undressed, started crawling on the bed and asked me to kiss. "Go ahead and clear. Cogne, otherwise I feel nothing."

I understood then what she did not say, but it is never safe, of course. I went to the phone, I pulled the wire and told him bound wrists and ankles to the bars of the bed. She always grumbled in a low voice, "Yes, go ahead, knock your bitch," when I told him suddenly pressed the pillow over his head, hard and long. It was a little discussed, but weaker and shorter than I had expected.

I was calm and I had a vague sense to have regained control, the trouble went away. It was returned the little girl she had been before all this bitchiness. Still, now it looked like a stranger in the room, Sally. One that would come from a distant country and that we dare not even speak.

I loaded into the trunk of the Buick, where he was still a little room, and I drove south. In the radio K7, Bruce Springsteen sang "Darkness on the Edge of Town" and it said:

"Everybody's got a secret Sonny Something
optometrist just can not face Some folks
Spend Their Whole Lives Trying to keep it
Theys Carry It With Them Every Step optometrist take
Till Some Day, They just keep it loose Cut it loose gold
let it down drag'em
Where No One Asks Any questions Or looks too long
in your In the face
darkness on the edge of town. "(1)

At dusk, the sky was striped with red above the road. Then the red started flashing like beacons. Off I saw something that looked so much like a dam cops that it was. At least three cars across. He came back this phrase K. Dick: "The reality is that continues to exist when you have ceased to believe. "

The boss singing now

"Tonight, tonight, The Highway IS bright
Out of Our Way, mister, you best keep
'Cause summer's here & the time is right
For Racing In The Street" (2).

It was like a signal. I posted my belt, crushed the accelerator to the floor, put his hands flat on the wheel and waited for it to come. With this grin on my lips as I know, because I got most of my life. One that seems to say: "I did my best but it was not enough."

Sandro


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Credit graphic: "Melissa" by Duran.
(1): Bruce Springsteen, "Darkness on the Edge of Town", 1978 Columbia Records
(2) Bruce Springsteen, "Racing In The Street", 1978, CBS / Columbia