I don’t believe this one is actually about love or money, but it might be about dating. It may be about the bemusement one feels when one is slightly drunk at a bar and attempting to make a new acquaintance. A younger, possibly dangerous new acquaintance. One who may or may not remind you slightly of your younger self. I don’t imagine that Marianne Faithfull spends much time at the bar fishing for dates anymore, but she probably still has plenty of ardent young admirers to fend off. And I do imagine it would be an odd feeling to be surrounded by pretty young things who are a fraction of your age and all in love with the idea of repeating your mistakes. Faithfull has the rather unique vantage point of being emulated and admired for the very things that almost killed her. I wonder if she finds it amusing or irritating that she’s the perennial toast of the in-crowd, and if she’s happy to give her blessing to every wave of fashion that wants to pay homage to her. Having been the glamorous, beguiling tragic-youth wannabe herself, she turns an almost maternal eye on that figure and wonders where that lost girl (or boy) thinks she’s going. Looking at it from the side of experience, she sees the pointlessness of the scene, the futility of always floating around in search of a connection, and also the blinding appeal of it, the glamour of the vortex. Nightlife, searching, hunting, dressing up, drinking, socializing with strangers you’ll never see again, groping around hoping for a spark, disappointment and apathy, self-destruction, delusion, addiction; if it doesn’t kill you, it’ll lead you out, eventually, to the land of maturity.