It had begun to rain again, a soft patter in the leaves that grew steadier and harder as I walked home.
After the celebration, before bedtime, they'll cover the top of the clean tank in plastic wrap and, working together, moving slowly with the unison of pallbearers, being careful not to slosh the water, carry it down the stairs to the family room, where with a soft patter of congratulatory applause they'll present Fish with a new home, right next to the television set.
He wears all black, save for an elaborate necklace, green Crocs and striped socks, and speaks in a soft, pattering French as he gestures to each image.
As with The Rain, it's all about restraint, but rather than minimal drum programming where each kick is hugely important, he dilutes and spreads out the drums to leave a constant soft patter; the high-pitched piano motif is equally light on the ears.
There's nothing like eating by a gentle campfire under the stars and hearing the soft patter of wallabies in the dark.
Every Night I Say a Prayer, released through the relaunched Trax Records for Record Store Day, is another sidestep away from the pop mainstream and comes with a brilliantly slinky remix from Tensnake, who surrounds the song with the soft patter of intricate drum claps and 80s-era synth lines.
When Viktor was first shown in London, in 1999, it was, as I remember, dirtier, and the soft patter of earth hitting the stage more sinister.
The deepest part about "The Fifty Project" is its tranquillity: it imparts the sensation of what quiet, concentrated time in the studio is really like, from the soft patter of bare feet making contact with the floor to the excessive dullness — this is improvisation, after all — that takes over until a seemingly invisible transference of weight jolts the mood of the room.
"Losing him was like losing the rain". He slows the piano to a soft pitter-patter, allows just a wink of stillness, before a sudden downpour of keys.
In wintertime, the sounds of nature are so subtle they're almost imperceptible: The whistling of the wind though craggy mountaintops, the whispering branches of the trees; the soft, delicate patter of an unseen animal's paws across snowy ground.
Now the lip-synching is a kaleidoscope: a patter song, a soft shoe, a sizzling Latin number; the sternly cultured voice of Miss Joan Crawford on a talk show lamenting the deterioration of the Oscar presentations because stars like "Mr. Gregory Peck" and "Mr. Charlton Heston" are no longer in command.
