A couple of weeks ago, I was walking to meet a friend in Soho Square. The route took me from where I was staying near King’s Cross, through that familiar stretch of London that always makes me feel like a tourist — the winding path through Clerkenwell and Farringdon. Since we moved out to rural Essex a few years ago, this part of the city has taken on a glow for me. It feels like the London I used to dream of — the one I visited as a teenager, or came to know properly in my early twenties. On a spring evening, after a long day of sun, the warmth in the air settles over everything. The city feels soft and golden. Lily Allen had it right. Lime bikes rattle past and office workers emerge from glass buildings, blinking into the soft light.
As I made my way towards Soho, I had The La’s in my ears — something I return to for a few days every year. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know and love this record. I remember reading, when I was younger, that Lee Mavers hated it. That he wished it had never been released. That has always stuck with me — and it’s coloured how I’ve heard it ever since. But not this evening. With the streets still holding the sun and everything feeling slightly weightless, I’m happy to let it wash over me.
Turning onto Frith Street, I passed Bar Italia and glanced up at the windows above Ronnie Scott’s — once the home of the old Heavenly offices. I’d first gone there at twenty-two. Jeff Barrett had paid for my train ticket down from Manchester so we could talk about music — what I was making, what they might be able to do. We drank wine at Bar Italia and I went back north that same evening with a head full of records I ‘needed to hear’. That day has stayed with me — heavy with promise, the kind of memory that never fades but deepens.
As I reached Soho Square, “Liberty Ship” finished, and for a moment the sounds of the city burst in — building work, voices, cars, laughter.
And then, “There She Goes.” It hits like a pure shot of Vitamin C. A rush of something bright and unnameable. Endorphins, dopamine, serotonin, adrenaline — whatever it is, I felt it all. Maybe I was a little high, but this felt clearer than that. It’s a perfect song. Just three choruses, no verses, and a bridge that somehow distorts time. Every second of it feels magic.
It ended as I stepped into the square. I pulled out my phone to play it again, but couldn’t do it. Something about the moment felt too full already. I let the city wash back in — bunting overhead, rickshaws blasting “Call On Me,” Spanish influencers posing by the pavilion.
I waited there, with the title still circling in my mind. There She Goes. It echoed like something older. She Moves Through the Fair. There She Goes. Just three words.
“It’s about scoring the winning goal in the FA Cup Final, dressed as Spiderman on a Harley” – John Squire on Made Of Stone (1989)
“Words fall away, leaving only the pulse beneath.” JH Prynne from “Near Zero” (1980)
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Modern Nature release a new single, Source, on 9 July.