The Chills are a Dunedin sound band, which is a musical era with which I’m not that familiar, but I have decided is mostly about hanging around with your mates in a horrible freezing flat in the early 80s and eventually someone suggests that you start a band as a way to
keep warm damn the man! Then Flying Nun Records signs you up and you make a million dollars become an indie-pop cult hit.
This is “Pink Frost”, a lovely little ditty about a man who has accidentally murdered his girlfriend and is now really distressed about the way she’s not moving. I feel awful sorry for him!
No one murders their girlfriend in Chapter Eleven, but it’s the bloodiest chapter by far until [SPOILER]. And meanie that I am, I’m not going to tell you who dies, and instead proffer this:
MINOR SPOILERS AHEAD
Then we were standing in the middle of a creek that came up to my knees, long river grasses winding about my calves. Iris moaned, a low, wavering noise that cut off into abrupt sobs. Bare-limbed European trees stood on the banks, with the odd patch of green indicating a cabbage tree or pine. I peered through them and made out a familiar squat, large structure, lit up by harsh white lights – the student association building. We were in the part of the creek that the pub looked over, but it seemed that no one had been out on the cold terrace at the time we appeared. At any rate, there weren’t any cries of alarm.
Mark staggered and fell against me, dragging Iris with him. I stood, somehow, against their double weight, and shoved back until we were all righted again, and splashing towards the bank. We collapsed in a tangle of cold wet limbs and bruises.