This is a fine example of what I like to call wide-lapel sleeze rock: you know, where a quick and sleazy encounter is described in great, brandied detail as a satin-sheeted, smoky assignation accompanied by a guitar riff that'll unzip pants, or by shoulder-baring saxophones, or some silken synths. This unfettered, sexy epoch was short, only 1977-79, but that's, what,
What kind of night? It's when you're asked to loosen up that pretty French gown since we can turn the lights down low and be swayin' to the music til the night closes in (shout out to Richmond, KY!), because you'd rather be a fool with a broken heart than a liar.
Slow Hand, of course, just cuts to the chase. And when it's over, this guy pushes the hair out of his eyes and goes crazy when he sees you. Just make sure that he doesn't still see your face if he's married someone else.
But it's this guy who'll get you in the end. He's been waiting in the hall.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. Back when you walked into the room:
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