This week’s Monday Music turns toward Guns N’ Roses with Paradise City, and after the emotional weight of last week’s Die With A Smile by Lady Gaga and Bruno Mars, this feels like a complete change of air.

The last blog link is here… Monday Music Week 19. (Die With A Smile)

Last week was about love, time, final moments and the people we would want beside us when everything else fell away. This week feels louder. Messier. More restless. It is less about holding someone at the end of the world and more about wanting to get out, turn the volume up and find somewhere that feels bigger than the place you are standing in.

That is what hit me first when I went back to Paradise City. It does not just sit there waiting for you, you press play and it invites you in. It does not ask politely to be understood. It kicks the door open with that huge chorus, that rough-edged energy, that feeling of bodies moving, guitars biting, voices shouting and a crowd somewhere already waiting to lose itself in it. The song feels alive before you have even had time to think about what it is really saying.

And maybe that is why it works so well.

Because sometimes music does not need to sit you down gently and explain your feelings. Sometimes it needs to grab you by the jacket, drag you out of your own head and remind you that life has noise in it. Sweat. Movement. Chaos. Hunger. The desire to be somewhere else, even if you cannot fully explain where that somewhere else is.

Paradise City has that strange pull. On the surface, it is huge, fun, loud and instantly recognisable, the kind of song that feels built for shouting along to with no shame whatsoever. But underneath all that rock energy, there is something more interesting going on. It is not just a song about a place. It is a song about longing. About escape. About the dream of somewhere better calling from the distance.

Everyone has their own version of that place.

It might not be a real city. It might not even be a place you could point to on a map. It might be a memory, a person, a night, a feeling, a version of yourself you are trying to get back to, or a future you keep imagining when life starts to feel too small. That is where Paradise City starts to get under the skin. It takes the idea of somewhere better and turns it into a chant, a demand, a roar from the part of us that does not want to stay stuck forever.

So this week is going to be different.

After the softness and emotional weight of last week, Paradise City feels like stepping outside into noise, headlights and restless air. It has dirt under its fingernails and a chorus big enough to shake the walls, but it still carries that deeper pull underneath it all. The need to move. The need to escape. The need to believe there is somewhere, somehow, where life might feel wider than it does right now.

Because sometimes the song you need is not the one that makes you sit still and think.

Sometimes it is the one that makes you want to move.

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When Escape Has A Soundtrack

The more I replayed Paradise City, the more I realised the song is powered by restlessness. Not sadness exactly, and not anger either, although both can sit somewhere nearby. It is that harder-to-name feeling that starts building when the walls seem a little closer than they used to, when routine begins to feel too tight around the ribs, when life is not necessarily bad but something inside you still keeps looking toward the horizon. That is the pull of the song for me. It does not sound like someone calmly thinking about a nicer place. It sounds like someone who needs movement, noise, distance, air, and a road that does not keep circling back to the same spot.

Most people know that feeling in one form or another. You get up, go to work, come home, do the jobs that need doing, answer messages, pay bills, keep things moving, then do it all again the next day. There can be good things inside that life. There can be comfort, love, pride and purpose too. But every now and then, something restless wakes up underneath it all and starts asking whether this is really everything you wanted, or whether some part of you has quietly accepted a smaller version of life because it was easier than chasing a wider one.

That is where Paradise City hits differently. It does not feel trapped inside the life it is singing from. It feels like it is already halfway out the door. The guitars surge forward, the rhythm refuses to sit still, and the chorus has that enormous shout-along energy that feels less like a polite request and more like a demand from the part of you that still wants out. The song has the feeling of leaning out of a moving car window with the wind hitting your face, not because you know exactly where you are going, but because staying still has started to feel worse than not knowing.

And maybe that is why it feels bigger than a city. Most people are not really searching for a place with a perfect postcard view and streets paved with answers. They are searching for a feeling. A place where life feels lighter. A place where they can breathe differently. Somewhere, the version of themselves buried under responsibility, routine and expectation can finally stretch again. Paradise City gives that feeling a name, then turns it into a roar. It makes escape sound less like weakness and more like hunger, the kind that comes from still believing life might have more waiting somewhere beyond the familiar.

After a few listens, I started thinking the song is not only about running away. That would make it simpler than it is. Running away is usually powered by fear, but this feels more like running toward something, even if that something is half dream, half memory, half nonsense and half hope. Yes, I know that is too many halves, but that is how dreams work. They do not care about clean maths. They just sit there glowing in the distance, convincing you that if you could only get a little closer, life might finally feel the way it was supposed to.

That hope is what gives Paradise City its pulse. Underneath the noise and swagger, there is a belief that somewhere beyond the current moment, something better might exist. Something worth chasing. Something worth taking the long road for. That does not mean the song is naive. It means it understands the strange human need to imagine a door where there might only be a wall. Sometimes that imagined door is enough to keep you moving. Sometimes the dream of somewhere better is the thing that stops you from sinking too deeply into where you are.

Life can become emotionally small if we let it. Not because we are weak, but because smallness can sneak in wearing normal clothes. Same worries, same routes, same conversations, same limits, same version of yourself doing what needs to be done. Then a song like Paradise City crashes through the speakers and reminds you that another part of you still exists, the part that wants noise, adventure, movement and the possibility of something different. Whether paradise is real almost does not matter yet. At this point in the song, what matters is that you still want to find it.

That is why Paradise City feels like an escape with an engine behind it. It does not hand you a map. It does not promise the destination will be perfect. It simply catches that restless spark before routine smothers it completely, and for a few minutes, it makes wanting out feel alive.

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The Place We Build In Our Heads

Once Paradise City gets past that first rush of escape, the idea of the place itself starts to become more interesting. The song gives us this huge, simple image, a city where the grass is green and the girls are pretty, and on the surface, that sounds almost cartoonishly bright. It is easy to treat it like pure rock fantasy, a big chorus built for crowds, beer, sweat, noise and everyone shouting along without thinking too deeply about it. But after a few listens, I started thinking that the simplicity is exactly why it works. It does not describe paradise in careful detail because it does not need to. It gives just enough for your own mind to start filling in the rest.

That is what people do with escape. We rarely imagine the full, complicated reality of somewhere better. We imagine fragments. A warmer street. A louder night. A version of ourselves with fewer worries stuck to us. A place where the pressure drops from our shoulders before we have even unpacked a bag. The dream does not need to make sense on paper. It only has to feel better than where we are. That is why paradise can be so powerful in a song like this. It becomes less of a destination and more of a blank space where the listener can pour whatever they are missing.

For one person, paradise might be a city full of lights, noise and strangers. For someone else, it might be a quiet house with no drama in it. It might be a younger version of themselves, before work, bills, heartbreak and responsibility started carving pieces out of their energy. It might be a person they lost, a place they left, a night they wish they could crawl back into for one more hour. It might even be a future they have never touched, but still somehow recognise in their chest. That is the strange thing about the places we build in our heads. They can be made from memory, fantasy, regret, hope and complete nonsense, all mixed together until they feel more emotionally real than somewhere you could actually visit.

That is where Paradise City starts to become more than a loud rock anthem. It taps into the private map everyone carries. The one with the places marked that nobody else can see. We all have somewhere in our mind that life would feel different. Somewhere, we tell ourselves we would breathe better. Somewhere, we would finally feel like the pressure had loosened and the world had stopped asking us to be sensible for five minutes. The details change from person to person, but the ache underneath is familiar. We want somewhere that feels less like survival and more like arrival.

Maybe that is why the chorus feels so massive. It does not have to be complicated because the dream itself is not complicated when it first appears. Take me somewhere better. Take me somewhere brighter. Take me somewhere I can feel alive again. That is the emotional shape of it. The song does not stop to question whether the place exists, whether it can last, whether it would still look beautiful once the hangover kicked in and the rent was due. It simply captures the moment when the imagined place is still glowing in the distance, untouched by reality, perfect because we have not had to live inside it yet.

There is a kind of danger in that, but there is beauty too. Sometimes we need those imagined places. They keep something lit when life becomes heavy or repetitive. They remind us that we still want more, and wanting more is not always greed. Sometimes it is proof that a part of us has not gone numb. The dream of paradise can be ridiculous, exaggerated, unrealistic and full of holes, but it can still do something useful. It can give direction to a feeling that would otherwise just sit inside us as frustration.

That is why I do not hear Paradise City as only a fantasy of excess. There is definitely swagger in it. There is plenty of rock and roll colour, no question. But underneath all that, I hear someone reaching for a place that makes sense emotionally, even if it makes no sense logically. A place where the world feels simpler. A place where the promise of pleasure, freedom and belonging is louder than the problems waiting back home. A place where the dream has not yet been ruined by detail.

And maybe that is the real pull. Paradise is often most powerful before we arrive. While it is still a shape in the distance. While it still belongs to the imagination. While it can be whatever we need it to be. Guns N’ Roses do not give us a neat, sensible, realistic city in this song. They give us a fever dream with guitars, a place bright enough to shout for and vague enough to become personal.

That is why people can keep singing it years later. They are not all singing about the same city. They are singing toward their own version of it.

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The Beautiful Mess Of Rock Freedom

Part of the reason Paradise City works so well is because it does not feel clean. It has polish in the way a massive rock song needs polish, of course, but it never feels scrubbed smooth. It still has grit under its nails. It still feels sweaty, loud and slightly dangerous around the edges. That matters, because this kind of song would lose something if it sounded too neat. It needs the feeling that everything might tip over if the band pushed a little harder.

That is the beauty of rock music when it hits properly. It does not always ask for permission before it enters the room. It does not tidy itself up so everyone can feel comfortable. It brings the noise with it. The guitars bite, the drums drive, the vocals sound like they have been dragged through heat and smoke, and the whole thing feels less like a performance and more like a release. Guns N’ Roses had that quality in abundance, that sense that the music was not just being played but lived through at full volume.

With Paradise City, the sound feels like a kind of freedom before the words even settle. The opening has that almost inviting brightness, then the song starts gathering weight, and before long it becomes something much bigger, rougher and more unstoppable. It does not feel like escape in a delicate way. It feels like escape with amps behind it. Escape with boots on. Escape with sweat on its back and a grin that probably knows trouble by name.

That roughness gives the song its life. A cleaner version might still have been catchy, but it would not have carried the same electricity. The slight chaos is part of the charm. It sounds like people making music with their whole bodies, not just their instruments. You can feel the push and pull inside it, the way the song swings between melody and attack, between that huge singalong sweetness and the harder, dirtier energy underneath. It is bright and wild at the same time, and that combination is what makes it feel so addictive.

There is something freeing about music that does not behave too politely. Sometimes you do not want a song that sits neatly in the background while you fold washing or answer emails. Sometimes you want a song that barges into the day and changes the temperature. Paradise City does that. It makes the air feel less still. It reminds you that music can be physical, not just emotional. It can move through your shoulders, your chest, your feet, and your hands on the steering wheel. It can make you feel like you have been switched back on without asking you to explain why you needed it.

That is a different kind of depth, and I think it is easy to overlook. People often treat loud, energetic songs as if they are somehow less meaningful than slower, sadder ones, but that is not true. Noise can carry truth too. A huge chorus can hold longing. A dirty guitar can say something about frustration, hunger and release that a quiet piano never could. Sometimes the emotional power is not in stillness. Sometimes it is in the moment a song makes you want to throw the windows open and let the whole street hear whatever has been trapped inside you.

That is where Paradise City shines. It does not analyse the desire for freedom. It becomes it. It turns restlessness into volume. It takes that need to get out, to move, to chase something brighter, and gives it a body. You can hear why people still respond to it, because the song does not feel like an artefact from another era. It feels like a fuse being lit every time it starts.

And maybe that is why the mess matters. Real freedom rarely looks pristine. It is not always calm, balanced and beautifully arranged. Sometimes freedom is loud. Sometimes it is clumsy. Sometimes it arrives in a burst of bad decisions, open roads, late nights, laughter, noise and the sudden feeling that life has slipped its collar for a while. That does not mean chaos is always good, but it does mean there is life in the rough edges.

Paradise City understands that. It does not offer a polished dream in a glass case. It offers a roar. A messy, glorious, slightly reckless roar that makes the idea of escape feel possible for a few minutes. Not sensible. Not safe. Not carefully approved by the responsible part of your brain. Possible.

And sometimes possible is enough to make the walls feel further away.

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Why This Song Feels Like Memory With The Volume Up

After the noise, the grit and the rough freedom of Paradise City, another feeling starts to creep in. Memory. Not the quiet, misty kind where everything is softened and sad around the edges, but the loud kind. The kind that comes back with a smell, a temperature, a ridiculous old outfit, a road you used to know, a mate’s laugh, a pub floor, a car stereo, a summer night, or a version of yourself you had almost forgotten existed.

That is one of the strange powers of songs like this. They do not just play in the present. They drag whole pieces of the past through the speakers with them. You can hear the first few seconds and suddenly you are somewhere else, even if only for a moment. Not necessarily somewhere perfect. Not necessarily somewhere you would want to live again. Just somewhere that still has a charge in it. Somewhere that reminds you life was once louder in a different way.

I think Paradise City has that built into its bones. It feels like a song made for shared moments, not quiet isolation. It belongs to rooms full of people shouting the chorus, whether they can sing or not. It belongs to car journeys where someone turns it up too loud and nobody complains. It belongs to nights that start with no real plan and somehow become stories people still bring up years later. That is not because every memory attached to it has to be wild or dramatic. Sometimes the power is simply in how instantly the song can make ordinary memories feel plugged back into the mains.

That is a different kind of nostalgia. It is not the kind that makes you want to sit still and ache for what has gone. It is the kind that reminds you the past had movement in it. You were once in places you did not know would become important. You were once laughing at things that would later become little pieces of personal history. You were once younger, messier, braver in some ways, more foolish in others, but fully inside moments that had not yet turned into memories.

That is what the song shakes loose for me. It does not make me think of one specific place as much as a whole feeling, the reckless brightness of being carried by a song bigger than the room you are in. That feeling when everyone knows the chorus and suddenly nobody is embarrassed. The serious parts of life fall away for a few minutes. People who might usually stand around awkwardly become part of the same shout. For the length of the song, the room feels less divided. Less careful. More alive.

There is something brilliant about that, because adult life can make people oddly guarded. Everyone learns how to behave, how to keep themselves composed, how to stay sensible enough not to look stupid. Then a song like Paradise City comes on and all that carefulness starts wobbling. Someone sings too loud. Someone does an awful bit of air guitar. Someone who claims they “do not really dance” suddenly has a suspicious amount of movement in their shoulders. The song gives people permission to become a little less polished for a while, and sometimes that is exactly what a memory needs in order to stick.

Maybe that is why rock songs like this survive so well. They are not only preserved by radio plays or playlists. They are preserved by people attaching them to their own lives. A song becomes part of someone’s history because it was there when something happened, even if that something was small. It was playing in the background. It was on in the car. It was shouted in a pub. It was heard at a party, a wedding, a festival, a garage, a kitchen, a bedroom, somewhere ordinary that the music made feel larger for a few minutes.

That is where Guns N’ Roses hit something that still works. Paradise City does not feel fragile enough to be kept behind glass. It feels like it wants to be used. Played loudly. Sung badly. Dragged into nights out and long drives and half-remembered summers. It is not precious in the delicate sense. It is precious because people have lived around it.

And maybe that is why it carries such a different kind of emotional weight from the songs that make you sit quietly with yourself. This one does not ask you to look inward so much as remember yourself in motion. It reminds you of the version of life where music was not just something in your headphones, but something in the room with you. Something other people were reacting to as well. Something you could feel bouncing off the walls.

That sort of memory has volume.

It does not whisper.

It kicks the door open, spills light into the hallway, and reminds you that some parts of the past still know all the words.

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The Danger Of Chasing Paradise Forever

The dream of somewhere better can be powerful, but it can also become slippery if you hold it for too long. That is where Paradise City starts to feel more complicated than a simple shout for escape. The song gives the fantasy a huge voice, and for most of it, that feels exciting. It feels like movement, colour, noise and release. But once the chorus has been living in your head for a while, another thought starts to creep in. What happens if the place you are chasing is always just a little further away?

That is the danger with paradise. It can keep you moving, but it can also keep you dissatisfied. If you are always looking toward the next place, the next version of yourself, the next chapter, the next escape route, then the life you are actually standing in can start to feel like a waiting room. Everything becomes temporary. Everything becomes something to get through. You stop noticing what is around you because your eyes are fixed on some glowing shape in the distance.

That does not mean the dream is wrong. Sometimes wanting more is exactly what saves you. Sometimes the idea of somewhere better is what gets you through a hard season, a dead-end job, a difficult place, a version of life that no longer fits. There are times when staying put is not noble. There are times when movement is necessary. There are times when the road out is not a fantasy, but a lifeline.

But there is another side to it too.

Sometimes paradise becomes the excuse we use to avoid being present. We convince ourselves that happiness is somewhere else, always somewhere else. Another town. Another job. Another relationship. Another body. Another bank balance. Another life where everything finally clicks into place, and we become the person we imagined we could be. Then, when we reach the next thing and still feel human inside it, we start searching again.

That can become exhausting.

Because real life follows you. Your fears come with you. Your habits come with you. The old aches do not always stay politely behind just because you changed the scenery. You can move cities and still carry the same restlessness. You can chase a dream and still wake up some mornings wondering why your chest feels tight. You can get closer to the life you wanted and still discover that paradise, once lived in, becomes ordinary in places.

That sounds bleak, but I do not mean it that way. If anything, it makes the dream more honest. Paradise does not stop being beautiful because it is imperfect. A place can be worth reaching for and still have rain, bills, arguments, tired mornings and days where nothing feels magical. The problem is not wanting somewhere better. The problem is expecting somewhere better to save you from ever feeling lost again.

That is too much pressure to put on any place.

Maybe that is why Paradise City keeps working. It captures the chase without fully solving it. It does not give us a neat answer. It does not pause halfway through and explain whether the city is real, impossible, dangerous or exactly what the singer needs. It simply keeps calling for it, over and over, as if the repetition itself is part of the hunger. Take me there. Take me back. Take me somewhere that feels different.

There is something very human in that repetition. We are all capable of turning paradise into a moving target. We tell ourselves life will begin properly once we get past this week, this problem, this fear, this debt, this job, this stage, this version of ourselves. We push happiness slightly ahead of us and then wonder why we are always chasing it. The finish line keeps changing its clothes.

That is where the song gets under my skin differently. The chorus feels triumphant, but there is a longing inside it that never fully settles. It is not just a celebration. It is a need. That need gives the song its power, but it also gives it a shadow. Because if paradise is always somewhere else, then how do we ever learn to live where we are?

I think that question matters. Not enough to kill the dream. I would never want to strip the song of its wildness or turn it into some sensible little lecture about appreciating what you have. That would miss the point completely. The hunger is part of the magic. The desire for escape is real. The need for a wider life deserves to be taken seriously.

But maybe the trick is knowing when paradise is calling you forward and when it is pulling you away from yourself.

Those are not the same thing.

One opens the world.

The other keeps you running.

And somewhere inside all that noise, Paradise City seems to understand both sides. It knows the thrill of wanting more, but it also carries the ache of never quite being there. That tension is what gives the song its bite. It is not only a party anthem. It is the sound of a dream loud enough to chase, and restless enough to question.

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Take Me Home

After all the noise, the escape, the fantasy and the chase, Paradise City keeps coming back to one word that changes the whole feeling of the song.

Home.

That is the part that makes it more than a wild shout for somewhere better. If the song only asked to be taken to paradise, it might feel like pure escape. A dream city. A brighter place. A loud fantasy somewhere beyond the mess of ordinary life. But the word home pulls something deeper into it. It suggests that paradise is not just about pleasure, noise, beauty or freedom. It is about belonging.

That changes everything.

Because home is not always the place we started. Sometimes it is not even a place at all. It can be a person, a room, a road, a song, a group of friends, a night where you finally stop feeling like you are performing yourself for other people. It can be the moment your shoulders drop without you noticing. The place where your laugh sounds less guarded. The feeling of not having to explain every piece of yourself before you are allowed to exist comfortably.

That is what Paradise City seems to be reaching for underneath all the rock and roll swagger. It is not only asking for somewhere exciting. It is asking for somewhere that feels right. Somewhere, the restless part of you can stop pacing for a while. Somewhere, the noise inside your head has something louder, warmer and more alive to crash into. Somewhere, you are not just visiting life, but actually part of it.

Maybe that is why the song can feel so huge and so personal at the same time. The chorus is built for crowds, but the feeling inside it belongs to individuals. Everyone shouting those words is probably picturing something slightly different. One person might hear a place they used to go. Someone else might hear a life they still want. Someone else might hear youth, freedom, chaos, summer, old mates, old mistakes, or the version of themselves that once felt easier to access. The same chorus can hold a thousand different homes without needing to name any of them.

That is the strange power of it.

For all its energy, Paradise City is not just chasing escape for the sake of escape. It is chasing return. Return to something brighter. Return to a feeling. Return to a self that has not been completely buried under routine, pressure, disappointment or time. That is why the song still feels alive after all these years. It is not only about trying to get out. It is trying to get back.

And maybe that is what most of us are doing more often than we realise. We think we are chasing new places, new lives, new dreams, new versions of ourselves, but sometimes what we are really chasing is a feeling we once had and lost along the way. The feeling of being open. The feeling of being reckless enough to believe things could change. The feeling of walking into a night without already knowing how it would end. The feeling of being young in spirit, even if life has added a few dents, bills and responsibilities since then.

There is no shame in wanting that back.

The danger, as I said before, is chasing paradise so hard that you never learn how to live where you are. But the answer is not to stop chasing altogether. That would be just as deadening. The answer might be to understand what the chase is really about. If paradise is only a perfect place somewhere else, it will probably keep moving. But if paradise is a feeling of belonging, freedom and being fully awake inside your own life, then maybe it becomes something you can recognise in smaller, stranger, more ordinary moments too.

A song can be part of that.

That sounds simple, but it is true. Sometimes music gives you a few minutes of home when real life feels scattered. It pulls the loose pieces of you into one place. It reminds you who you were, who you are, and who you still might become. Paradise City does that in its own loud, scruffy, glorious way. It does not soothe you gently. It grabs the restless part of you and gives it somewhere to shout.

That might be why the song still works. It does not promise peace. It promises movement. It promises colour. It promises that somewhere out there, or somewhere inside you, there is still a place where the grass looks greener, the lights look brighter, the air feels warmer and life does not feel quite so small.

Maybe that place is real.

Maybe it is not.

Maybe it changes every time we think we have found it.

But the wanting matters. The searching matters. The refusal to accept a life with all the volume turned down matters. Paradise City keeps shouting because some part of us still needs to believe there is somewhere to go, somewhere to return to, somewhere we can feel like ourselves again.

And maybe that is the real home the song is asking for.

Not a perfect city.

Not a flawless dream.

Just a place, a person, a moment, or a feeling where life finally opens wide enough for you to breathe.

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Now For Your Songs

Before we get into this week’s reader choices, I want to bring it back to what Monday Music has become.

Each week starts with one song, one feeling, one doorway into whatever that track happens to stir up. This week, Guns N’ Roses and Paradise City took us somewhere loud, restless and full of movement. It became about escape, memory, freedom, the places we build in our heads and the strange human need to believe there is somewhere out there, or somewhere inside us, where life can feel wider than it does right now.

But Monday Music is not only about the main song.

Every week, readers, indie artists, bands and music lovers bring their own tracks into this space. Some are polished. Some are raw. Some are loud. Some are quiet. Some feel like they have been built in bedrooms, garages, rehearsal rooms, small studios or corners of life where creativity still finds a way to breathe. That is what I love about this part. It turns the blog from one person writing about music into a little weekly gathering of different voices and different sounds.

If you want to keep listening beyond the post, every song featured through Monday Music gets added to the Spotify playlist. It is slowly becoming a trail of where this series has been, from the main songs to the reader choices, indie artists and hidden gems people have shared along the way.

Monday Music Spotify Playlist

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5gK6iuswSxtugkatGm2CaU?si=697fea077b054c54

And as always, a shoutout to Stephen Mac over at Bounce Digital Radio. He continues to support independent artists, share new music and help give real musicians a place to be heard. If you enjoy discovering artists outside the usual noise, go and have a listen.

Bounce Digital Radio

https://www.BounceDigitalRadio.co.uk

So now, here are this week’s reader choices and indie songs.

Give them a listen. Follow someone new if they catch you. Share a track if it moves you. Sometimes one extra listener might not seem like much from the outside, but to an artist trying to build something from scratch, it can mean more than people realise.

And maybe that fits this week’s feeling too.

Somewhere out there, someone’s idea of Paradise City might be as simple as one more person pressing play.

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THEPLAINANDSIMPLEGUY

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• Monday Music, week 20. (Paradise City)
• Monday Music, week 19. (Die With A Smile)
• Spanners & Pressure… Behind the Garage Doors. (Technology Fights Back)
• Monday Music, week 18. (Feel)
• Monday Music, week 17. (Sleeping Sun)