There's a review of this album on Amazon that isn't a review, it's just the kind of thing I typically write on here. It's not even about this song, but some other song.

there are some pavement songs which fit certain moods *perfectly*, and at those times, i don't have a choice but to count them as my favorites. for instance...i was in new york a few springs ago, spending the evening with the girl i'd had a brief-yet-effective romance with the summer before. she was there with a guy; i was there with two other girls, mutual friends. the five of us were in an underground, literal-hole-in-the-wall-type bar, tucked away inside a subway station at 50th street (i think). the bar was called siberia, and was a total punk/russian (prussian?) paradise. every light bulb was red, and there was writing on every inch of the walls and tables. the lone bathroom stall had a gaping three foot hole busted out of the wall on one side, through which you could see only blackness. the sofas had long ago collapsed on their stumpy legs and fallen to the sticky floor, where they laid dejected and off-balance. cushions were missing and the beer was extremely expensive. i got drunk and watched her...got drunk on the beer and the nostalgia both, pressed myself into a musty corner of the couch, and after a while, closed my eyes. there was a jukebox. it was the brightest and biggest thing in the whole place. it had "crooked rain, crooked rain" in it. i played "fillmore jive," wallowed in its brilliant decadence...i played it again then got up and roamed around manhattan for 5 hours. alone and happy.

that night, "fillmore jive" was my favorite pavement song.

I've got nights like this but not like this, memories that I've lost and songs that I can't remember, so many things I can recount because it was too long ago and I didn't know then that I would want to hold onto the memory for as long as possible. I remember having "standing outside a broken phone booth with money in my hand" stuck in my head at 11 years old and walking the playground thinking about how bluesy the whole thing one; wondering why so many fucking people put Journey on the jukebox at a bar when they should all be aware that it reminded me of an ex; hitting 100mph on the interstate listening to The Dodos manic rhythms...

But I've never been to Manhattan! Agh. Fuck my life.

I need more, you know? Why don't I associate this song with some poignant memory? What opportunity did I pass up that would have spawned an interesting story, where did I misstep? Was I supposed to trip last week and break my foot? Would that have given me more?

I'm hungry.