I used to go to a cafe in Cambridge, Massachusetts a lot because I liked to sit in the window, drink coffee that was never quite hot enough, and listen to whatever music the barista played. We had similar taste; it was often Stereolab or Tortoise or, on feistier days, early Liz Phair. It was an indie time in my life.

Today, I walked to a coffee shop to buy a pound of beans. The barista offered me a complementary cup. He was playing Lee Hazlewood. I felt as though I were meant to be there, that place, that time. I sat in the window watching construction workers erect scaffolding, admiring the brick building across the street which was painted robin's egg blue but dominated by a sign with blocky yellow letters.

Lee's voice is magical, his storytelling transports, and I could listen to him every morning as I drink my coffee and feel warm.