DARK TRANQUILLITY Finest Swedish Melodic Death Metal
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This melodic crooner posed briefly for a portrait before flying off to join others actively foraging on the ground.
(Taken on Oct. Local park, Edmonton)
Spotted at Baron's Haugh nature reserve, Motherwell.
This melodic warbler is widely distributed across Britain & Ireland through the breeding season, and increasingly in winter too.
Blackcap breeding numbers have steadily increased in the UK since the late-1970s, and have also expanded their breeding range throughout northern Scotland and the island of Ireland during this time. They are now absent only on the highest Scottish peaks and farthest flung islands. In autumn, these breeding birds depart for southern Europe and are replaced by Blackcaps from central Europe. BTO research has helped show how garden bird feeding led to the evolution of this new migratory route and wintering strategy. Although widespread in winter, Blackcaps tend to be absent from the uplands at this time of year.
Blackcaps have a greyish overall appearance. The eponymous black cap is only found in the males; females and juveniles have a brown cap instead. The song is very similar to that of the Garden Warbler, but can be distinguished with practice. Blackcaps are found in parks, deciduous woodland and scrub, as well as at garden feeding stations.
This contented little chickadee was whistling out that wonderful melodic "Here Peatie" call that carried quite a distance in the crisp quiet air this afternoon.
It was awe-inspiring to gaze upon the silent, static yet stunning formations of the normally melodic and rhythmic sounds of cascading waterfalls now frozen in time, that is, until the next thaw.
2018 07 31
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Tree: {anc} tears tree [red]
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Blog...~ le soleil ~
For more information have to blog <33
Thanks so much for your time !!
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The beautiful meadowlarks have always been a favorite of mine. They are often seen on fence posts as you travel along country roads in Central Florida. The first sign that they are near is their melodic song. You can not help but love it and then you follow it to find the little beauty that is singing his heart out. This time we were fortunate to find them perched on the lovely long grasses which made for such a wonderful perch . Certainly a day to remember
Wishing you a beautiful and blessed Friday !!!.
Hunky Dory is the fourth studio album by English musician David Bowie, released on 17 December 1971.
Compared to the guitar-driven hard rock sound of The Man Who Sold the World, Bowie opted for a warmer, more melodic piano-based pop rock and art pop style on Hunky Dory. His lyrical concerns on the record range from the compulsive nature of artistic reinvention on "Changes", to occultism and Nietzschean philosophy on "Oh! You Pretty Things" and "Quicksand"; several songs make cultural and literary references. He was also inspired by his stateside tour to write songs dedicated to three American icons: Andy Warhol, Bob Dylan and Lou Reed. The song "Kooks" was dedicated to Bowie's newborn son Duncan. The album's cover artwork, photographed in monochrome and subsequently recoloured, features Bowie in a pose inspired by actresses of the Hollywood Golden Age.
Upon release, Hunky Dory and its lead single "Changes" received little promotion from RCA who were wary that Bowie would transform his image shortly. Thus, despite very positive reviews from the British and American music press, the album initially sold poorly and failed to chart. It was only after the commercial breakthrough of Bowie's 1972 follow-up album The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars that Hunky Dory itself became a commercial success, peaking at number three on the UK Albums Chart. Retrospectively, Hunky Dory has been critically acclaimed as one of Bowie's best works, and features on several lists of the greatest albums of all time. Within the context of his career, it is considered to be the album where "Bowie starts to become Bowie", definitively discovering his voice and style.
"Life on Mars?" is described by Buckley as a "soaring, cinematic ballad". Although Bowie was fixated on becoming Ziggy Stardust at the time of its recording, the song has no connection to Mars itself; the title was a reference to the recent media frenzy of the US and Soviet Union racing to get to the red planet. The song is a parody of singer Frank Sinatra's "My Way" and uses the same chord sequence for its opening bars. (from Wikipedia)
The song: youtu.be/AZKcl4-tcuo
Happy 50th anniversary, Hunky Dory!
ARi - Metasin Live Series Ep. 003 [Melodic Techno Progressive House Mix] 4K
Body: Maitreya Mesh Body - Lara V5.3
Head: LeLUTKA Zora Head 3.1
Hair: Stealthic - Rift (Full Pack)
Pants: SCANDALIZE. Karole. Bra Jacket Jeans
Headphones: {P.Fashion} DJ Headphones DarkBlue set 3 in 1
DJ Equipment: .GCD AUDIO - Pro DJ Set 3 (V2.5)
Lighting and/or windlights: Made by myself
Pose : by myself Using AnyPose BVH v1.92
This photo was taken in: ^^Lady Rider ^^ Biker Bar & Club & ^^The Fine Arts Co. ^^
The melodic hum of silence, the pulse of the waking life,
the distant echoes of arcane desires?
Location, Kastoria, Hellas.
Have a wonderful week my friends and thank you all for your kind visits, comments and faves.
For maximum viewing experience please use the image's original size 1600x1328. Please note that its accurate colour profile is best viewed in google chrome.
One of the most common and widespread sparrows in North America. Fairly large with a long, rounded tail. Overall coarsely patterned with gray and brown, usually with more reddish-brown wings and tail. Look especially for thick brown streaks on the underparts and a broad dark mustache stripe. Significant variation in plumage geographically: relatively pale and rusty in the southwestern U.S.; blacker streaking in California; overall dusky in the Pacific Northwest. Larger, longer-tailed and usually more rusty than Savannah Sparrow. Found in a variety of scrubby habitats both near and far from human development, especially edges of fields, often near water. Listen for husky "chimp" calls and melodic song with chips and trills. (eBird)
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Imagine my surprise at finding this Song Sparrow eating berries. It was seeking them out and was obviously enjoying the juicy goodness. I guess berries are seeds, which are the usual sparrow diet.
Britannia Conservation Area, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. August 2023.
Designed by award-winning architects Tonkin-Liu, the Panopticon the 'Singing Ringing Tree', a 3 metre high sculpture of metal tubes, is designed to catch the westerly winds and produce a melodic sound.
geodesic eyes, and your life on rewind... series
_______
Here's a temporary fix
In case you don't come down
Metallic cloud
Voice in the crowd
Cheer yourself up there
Free to be seen
Geodesic eyes
And your life on rewind
Your name was on file
So we pulled the case
How does it taste
With your mouth from your face
Here's a temporary earth
In case you don't get out
Melodic rain
Your own choke chain
Drove yourself here
So you might as well stay
You wanna be amazed
See the sky on delay
Keep a close eye
For a ship in the sky
Resurrection signs
To the numbers aligned
Zodiac pain
And the birds flew away
Colors dont change
When your life gets strange
Metallic Cloud, Damien Jurado, 2014
Hair: taketomi - Kaede
Dress: CandyDoll - Veronica Dress
Choker: Melodic. Triangle Choker
Skin: amara beauty - Powder Pack MAR 2017 - Brooke - Powder Pack Catwa MARCH 2017
Head - Catwa - Catya
We're still unable to go far from home these days due to ongoing pandemic restrictions but with a few days of warm weather, we did some driveway camping to "get away from it all" - sort of! It was nice, actually, and so was waking up to the cacophony of bird song that starts just before dawn. This yellow warbler had a gentle melodic voice - compared to a nesting pair of robins that seem to SHOUT out their good morning song.
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PARIS AFTER DARK
Act VII: The Colour of Yesterday
The first thing Madison remembered was the sunlight.
It had been warm against her cheek, filtering through the leaves of the trees, while a gentle summer breeze danced across her skin. Somewhere beside her, a man was reading poetry. His voice was low and melodic, the words spoken with an easy familiarity, as though he had read them to her a hundred times before.
James.
He was lying beside her in the grass, his dark hair falling carelessly across his forehead. There was something different about him. Not his face, nor those piercing blue eyes, but the ease with which he smiled. He looked younger somehow. Not in years, but in spirit.
He turned towards her, smiling with such open affection that she felt an inexplicable happiness.
She knew the words he was reading. She was certain of it. Yet whenever she tried to catch them, they seemed to drift away on the breeze. She remembered reaching for his hand.
And then she woke.
For a moment, Madison lay perfectly still beneath the soft white sheets of her Paris hotel bed.
The dream had been so vivid that she could almost feel the grass beneath her, the warmth of the sun lingering on her skin.
Then she remembered the rain.
The little awning of the florist's shop where they had taken cover. James standing impossibly close. The distant church bell as his lips finally found hers.
She smiled into her pillow.
"Oh, Madison," she murmured. "You've really gone and done it this time."
The clock on the bedside table read 12:47 p.m. She sat up.
"Oh my!"
Outside, Paris was already well into its day. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets below washed clean and shining beneath a pale blue sky.
She'd slept past noon.
But then, she supposed, keeping company with a man who seemed to have an inexhaustible appetite for midnight walks was hardly conducive to early mornings. She wondered whether James was still asleep.
He'd promised to see her again that evening, although she couldn't quite remember whether they'd settled on a time. Then again, James seemed to possess a remarkable talent for appearing just when she was beginning to miss him, and she was already beginning to miss him.
There was something almost old-fashioned about him, she thought. The way he spoke, the way he listened. And those curious little remarks that occasionally slipped into their conversations.
I remember...
He'd said it again last night, when she'd described herself as an eternal optimist.
She couldn't remember his exact words now, only the impression that he had been recalling something from a very long time ago. Perhaps he was simply an old soul. She liked that about him.
Come to think of it, she knew remarkably little about him.
They had talked about books, about Paris, about places they'd travelled and things they both loved. Yet somehow, the ordinary details of his life had remained unexplored. She didn't even know what he did for a living.
She smiled to herself. There would be time enough to discover all that.
By the time she'd showered and dressed, her thoughts had turned to the beautiful first edition of Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du mal she'd seen in Monsieur Laurent's bookshop. Its leather binding had been worn smooth by time, its pages delicately edged with age. It was a magnificent volume, and its price had been equally magnificent.
James had offered to buy it for her.
She'd declined, quite firmly.
She could hardly allow a man she'd only recently met to spend a small fortune on her, however charming he might be, but she'd been thinking about the book ever since.
Perhaps Monsieur Laurent had another edition, something a little more suited to her budget.
And there was something else.
A photograph.
She remembered catching sight of it during their visit, though James had distracted her before she'd had a chance to look properly.
Something about it had seemed strangely familiar.
She glanced at the clock again.
There was plenty of afternoon left, and she knew exactly where she wanted to spend it.
The bell above the bookshop door gave its familiar, vibrant chime as Madison stepped inside.
Monsieur Laurent looked up from the volume he was examining.
"Mademoiselle Madison! What a pleasure."
"Bonjour, Monsieur Laurent. I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"An old bookseller is never disturbed by someone returning for a book."
She laughed.
"Then you already know why I'm here."
"Ah. Baudelaire," he said.
"You remember?" she asked, a little surprised.
"My dear, I remember every book that someone has fallen in love with."
He smiled and continued.
"Have you reconsidered the first edition?"
Madison laughed.
"Oh my, no! I haven't suddenly come into a fortune, Monsieur Laurent."
"A pity. It is a magnificent copy," he said with genuine enthusiasm.
"It is. But perhaps you have something a little more suited to a lady travelling on a budget?"
"As it happens, I believe I do," he said as he disappeared briefly between the shelves.
Madison wandered towards the counter.
The shop seemed quieter than she remembered. Afternoon light filtered through the tall windows, catching the dust suspended above the old wooden floor.
There was a reassuring permanence to this place, as though the rest of Paris might change beyond its doors while Monsieur Laurent and his books remained untouched by time.
Laurent returned carrying a smaller volume bound in dark burgundy leather.
"Not quite so distinguished in years," he said, placing it before her, "but every bit as beautiful in words."
Madison opened it carefully. The pages were slightly yellowed, the type beautifully set.
"Oh, this is lovely," she said, admiring its leather binding.
"Poetry, mademoiselle, does not become less beautiful simply because one cannot afford its first printing."
She looked up at him and smiled. "That's a wonderful way of putting it."
"An old bookseller must occasionally justify his existence." He smiled at her with genuine warmth.
She laughed. "Well, you've certainly sold me the book."
"Excellent." He reached for his spectacles.
"And your gentleman friend? I trust he is well?"
Madison felt herself blush.
"I believe so. We were out rather late last night. I imagine he's still sleeping."
Laurent's smile barely altered. "Yes," he said softly. "I imagine he is."
She ran her fingertips over the book's cover.
"You know, it's rather strange. I seem to know so little about him."
"And yet?"
She smiled, a little embarrassed. "He seems to have been on my mind rather a lot lately."
Laurent regarded her with quiet amusement.
"Then I suspect Paris is treating you very well indeed, mademoiselle."
"Oh, indeed it is." She laughed, and Laurent began preparing the book for wrapping.
Madison's gaze wandered beyond his shoulder.
And there it was.
The photograph.
It rested beside a small stack of old papers, partially concealed beneath the corner of a ledger.
"There it is," she said.
Laurent followed her gaze. "What is, mademoiselle?"
"That photograph. I noticed it when James and I were here last. May I see it?"
For the first time since she'd entered the shop, Laurent hesitated.
Only briefly.
"Of course." He lifted the photograph carefully and placed it on the counter between them.
It was a colour photograph.
An old one.
The colours had softened with age, the greens of the grass fading towards olive, the sunlight carrying that particular golden warmth of photographs taken decades before.
A young couple lay together on a blanket beneath the trees of a Parisian park.
The woman had strawberry-blonde hair, loosely pinned up, with soft strands escaping around her face.
The man beside her had thick, dark, unruly hair and startling blue eyes. He was smiling.
Not the guarded, almost melancholy smile Madison knew so well, but something open and carefree.
She leaned closer. Her breath caught in her throat.
The woman looked like her.
Not merely similar. Almost exactly like her.
And the man...
She picked up the photograph, studying it more closely.
Laurent said nothing.
"Who are they?" she enquired.
"Jim and Madeleine."
She looked up at him.
"Jim?" she asked softly.
"Yes."
"And when was this taken?" she asked.
"The late sixties. Summer of 1968, if my memory serves me."
Madison looked back at the photograph.
The man's face was unmistakable. The eyes. The mouth. The dark hair.
"He's the absolute image of James."
Laurent watched her carefully.
"Is he?" he said casually.
She gave a small, incredulous laugh. "Surely you can see it!"
"Yes, mademoiselle. I can."
"And the woman..." Her voice trailed away.
She turned the photograph over.
A date had been written on the back in faded blue ink.
Été 1968.
Summer, 1968.
"How extraordinary," she whispered to herself.
Laurent remained silent.
"Was Jim related to James?"
The old bookseller looked at the photograph for a moment.
"There is a family connection, yes."
"Then you knew them?" she asked.
"I knew of them," he replied.
"And Madeleine?"
His expression softened. "She was a remarkable young woman. An artist, in fact."
"Really?" Madison asked softly, genuinely intrigued by all of this.
"Oh yes. She saw beauty in things most people would pass without noticing," he continued.
Madison smiled faintly. "She sounds lovely."
"She really was," Laurent said.
Madison looked down again. "They look so happy."
"They were."
Something in his voice made her raise her eyes.
"Did something happen to them?" she asked.
Laurent removed his spectacles.
"The following year was not a kind one," he said, his voice distinctly tinged with sadness.
Madison waited, but he offered nothing further.
She studied the photograph once more.
There was something about the sunlight.
The way Jim lay beside Madeleine, his arm draped around her.
The trees.
The grass.
The blanket.
An inexplicable sensation passed through her.
She had seen this before.
No.
Not seen it.
Felt it.
The softness of the grass beneath her.
A warm summer breeze moving through the leaves.
The low, familiar cadence of a man's voice reading poetry.
Those blue eyes looking at her in the sunlight.
Her dream.
Madison slowly lowered the photograph. "How strange."
"Is something wrong, mademoiselle?" Laurent asked.
"No. It's just..." She hesitated, suddenly embarrassed.
"I had the most peculiar dream this morning."
Laurent regarded her kindly.
"Dreams often seem peculiar when we try to remember them."
"Yes, but this one..." She glanced at the photograph again.
"It was rather like this." She gestured at the photograph.
Laurent's hand rested lightly on the counter. "Like the photograph?"
"Yes. I dreamt I was lying in a park, beneath the trees. James was beside me, reading poetry."
She laughed softly. "It sounds terribly romantic, doesn't it?
I suppose that's what happens when someone has been on your mind a little too much."
Laurent smiled politely.
"There's certainly no harm in a romantic dream, mademoiselle. Especially in Paris."
"No, of course not." She looked at the photograph again.
"It's just that the sunlight, the grass, the way they were lying together..."
She shook her head.
"Well, I suppose I must have noticed more of the photograph than I realised when I was here before."
"Perhaps." He nodded in agreement.
"But the oddest thing was his voice."
"James's voice?" he asked.
"Yes. He was reading something in French. I can't remember the words, although in the dream I seemed to know them."
She smiled apologetically.
"Listen to me. I've come to buy a book and now I'm telling you about my dreams!"
Laurent gave a gentle chuckle.
"An old bookseller hears many things, mademoiselle. Dreams are among the more pleasant."
He reached for the brown wrapping paper.
Madison placed the photograph carefully back on the counter.
Yet as Laurent wrapped her book, she found herself looking at the young couple one last time.
Something about the image troubled her. Not unpleasantly. More like déjà vu.
Like hearing a familiar melody and being unable to remember where she'd first heard it.
Madison left the bookshop with Baudelaire wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
Monsieur Laurent had insisted on including a small discount.
"For a young woman who appreciates old things," he'd said.
She'd thanked him warmly.
But as she stepped into the afternoon, her thoughts were no longer entirely on the book.
Jim.
Madeleine.
The summer of 1968.
And a photograph that looked impossibly like something she'd dreamed only hours earlier.
The afternoon had grown overcast, the pale blue of the morning gradually disappearing behind a veil of cloud. She wondered whether James would find the resemblance as extraordinary as she did.
Perhaps she would tell him about it tonight. She imagined his expression when she described the photograph, then, quite unexpectedly, she remembered the way he'd kissed her beneath the rain.
Her smile returned.
Whatever mysteries Paris held, she thought, some things were considerably more pleasant to contemplate than others. She tucked the parcel beneath her arm and continued down the street.
Monsieur Laurent stood at the bookshop window until Madison disappeared around the corner.
Then he turned the sign on the door.
FERMÉ.
He returned to the counter. The photograph lay exactly where she'd left it.
For a long time he looked at the young couple beneath the summer trees.
Jim.
Madeleine.
He remembered that summer.
And he remembered what followed.
He removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Then he picked up the telephone. He dialled a number from memory.
When the call was answered, his voice was quiet.
"James."
A pause.
"She came back this afternoon."
He listened.
"Yes. She saw the photograph."
Another silence.
"She noticed the resemblance, of course. Both of them."
Laurent glanced towards the empty doorway.
"But there's something else. Something I think you should know."
He hesitated.
"She told me she dreamt of you."
A pause.
"Not as you are now, James. She described the two of you lying together beneath the trees. In the sunshine."
The silence at the other end lengthened.
"Yes. Like the photograph."
Laurent listened.
"She'd only glimpsed it during her first visit. She hadn't examined it until today."
He looked down at the young couple, forever suspended in the summer of 1968.
"And James..." His voice grew quieter.
"She remembered you reading poetry to her."
This time there was no reply.
For several seconds, Laurent heard nothing but the faint sound of the line.
"James?"
At last, a voice answered, so quietly that Laurent almost failed to hear it.
"What did she remember?" James asked.
"Not the words. Only your voice. She said you were reading to her in French."
Another long silence. Then James spoke again.
Laurent closed his eyes. "I know," he whispered.
He looked once more at Madeleine's smiling face.
"After all these years, I hardly dare believe it myself."
Central Kalahari Game Reserve
Botswana
Southern Africa
Two people have said this bird is a capped wheatear. I only got a chance to take two images, and I had to do a heavy crop because it was so far away.
The capped wheatear (Oenanthe pileata) is a small insectivorous passerine bird that was formerly classed as a member of the thrush family Turdidae, but is now more generally considered to be an Old World flycatcher, Muscicapidae.
This wheatear is found in open dry sandy and stony habitats and short grassland with a few bushes and termite mounds in Africa, from Kenya and Angola south to the Cape. It is largely non-migratory, but undertakes seasonal movements.
The capped wheatear is 17–18 cm long and weighs 32 g. Its legs and pointed bill are black. This common species is striking and unmistakable in appearance. The adult has a black cap, cheeks and breast band, and white eye stripe and throat. The rest of the underparts are white with buff on the flanks and lower belly. Like other wheatears, it has a distinctive tail pattern with a black feathers on the base and centre of the tail forming an inverted T against the otherwise white rump.
The capped wheatear's song is a loud melodic warble interspersed with slurred chattering, and it has a chik-chik alarm call.
This solitary species feeds on insects, especially ants. Like other wheatears, it perches on mounds and hops over the short grass, or flies low over the ground. - Wkipedia
Birds visiting my garden food table are the theme for today. Three birds who have been regular visitor to my garden. This is a juvenile Pied Butcherbird whose feathers have since turned to black and white. They are socialble song birds with a remarkable repertoire of melodic calls.
It's almost 6 minutes long, but here is a link to a recording of Pied Butcherbird calls; come and spend a few minutes in the Australian bush. www.youtube.com/watch?v=0nznLzzJnzs
The inception of this street stemmed from Bambi and my initial vision to craft a backdrop for an editorial piece on NeoJapan for L'Homme Magazine April 2024. What began as a mere backdrop evolved into a captivating narrative, sparking discussions about creating a mini-sim. As ideas began to take shape, our conversations ignited a creative flurry, resulting in the birth of Mirai Melody.
Inspired by our mutual passions for NeoJapan, old-meets-new, urban-meets-nature, and melodic experiences, we've meticulously designed this small little street.
We created a curated environment that feels loud, buzzy and foggy. Picture traversing a digital thoroughfare adorned with hidden treasures - a book alley, quaint eateries, and even a nostalgic classroom scene. The vibrant colours(me!) and landscape, detailed moments(bams!) intertwine and seamlessly blend together. Every graffiti piece and poster has been carefully crafted just for this street to enhance the ambiance of our creation.
Indulge in the street food offerings and immerse yourself in the Neo Japan ambiance we've meticulously cultivated.
*PS - spot the cute anime poster of us at the entrance of a home.
Outfit: Amias SHARY Dress for @Cosmopolitan event
QuatreTTocs Pose at @Marketplace
QuatreTTocs Rose Garter Tattoo (BoM) at @Marketplace
For credits and more click here
My blog: quatrettocs.blogspot.com/
It's the second time I 'm trying sth like this. This time without any serious processing, only some cropping. I believe that this shot is better than my previous lp shot.
His melodic trills echo over the fields, and are answered by another meadowlark. My favorite sounds indicating that spring is on the way!
This melodic warbler is widely distributed across Britain & Ireland through the breeding season, and increasingly in winter too.
Blackcap breeding numbers have steadily increased in the UK since the late-1970s, and have also expanded their breeding range throughout northern Scotland and the island of Ireland during this time. They are now absent only on the highest Scottish peaks and farthest flung islands. In autumn, these breeding birds depart for southern Europe and are replaced by Blackcaps from central Europe. BTO research has helped show how garden bird feeding led to the evolution of this new migratory route and wintering strategy. Although widespread in winter, Blackcaps tend to be absent from the uplands at this time of year.
Blackcaps have a greyish overall appearance. The eponymous black cap is only found in the males; females and juveniles have a brown cap instead. The song is very similar to that of the Garden Warbler, but can be distinguished with practice. Blackcaps are found in parks, deciduous woodland and scrub, as well as at garden feeding stations.
Piece of Me [POM] | Zhavia Earrings
the Collaborator | Heather Langley
the Chords press play
Enter the Sessions
Taken at Masirah Island, Oman.
FACTS:
Slender and streaked pipit. Feeds on the ground like other pipits, but perches readily in trees or bushes when singing, or alights in tree at end of parachuting song flight. As the name suggests, usually associated with trees (on breeding grounds), but also found in agricultural areas and grassy scrub in winter. All pipits look rather similar and are best identified to species by combination of habitat and voice: Tree Pipit call a high, shrill, buzzy "tzzz"; song more melodic and varied than Meadow Pipit song.
(eBird)
ღ๑ï๑ïღ
Thank you very much for the kind comments, awards, likes and the appreciation of my work ...I am very grateful and appreciate it very much ...thank you for your kind support ✿ ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ ✿
Submitted for #MacroMondays #LineSymmetry.
A close up of the score to one of my big band arrangements.
An Oriental magpie-robin (copsychus saularis) singing out in the early morning. These birds are known for their melodic song and, sadly, were sometimes kept as caged birds for that reason. Photographed in Khuk Khak, Phang Nga, Thailand.
Argentine tango is a musical genre and accompanying social dance originating at the end of the 19th century in the suburbs of Buenos Aires [and Montevideo. Its lyrics are marked by nostalgia, sadness, and laments for lost love. The typical orchestra has several melodic instruments and is given a distinctive air by the small button accordion called the bandoneon.*
*https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Argentine_tango