WHAT DOES MUSIC DO if not fill the space inside us that might otherwise be occupied by certainty. If we knew what we wanted, if we understood who we are, music would still be there and music might still satisfy on sonic and physical levels, might even soothe in its quieter moments and make the blood race in its more moments, but chances are it wouldn’t be vital. It wouldn’t be necessary. We wouldn’t be defined by, or seek to define ourselves by, something as separate from us as music.
But it does. And we are. And by “we” here, I’m talking about, obviously, “me”.
Recently I came across a 51-track CD I made for everyone who came to my 50th birthday party, capturing a song from every year and a bonus track (naturally) because I’d seen Kate Bush live the year before and life hadn’t been quite the same since. And she had to be in this 50 year package. And it freed up a year to include someone else earlier without losing her. And it was my party and I could change the rules if I wanted to. And frankly given how many artists who really matter to me and how many songs that really matter to me I had to ditch people are lucky I didn’t give them two or three or four or more tracks for every year in a box set that might outlast their lives or our friendship. Naturally.
It’s a pretty damn fine selection if I do say so myself, with Joni and The Smiths, Talking Heads and Pilot, Costello and Eno, The Drifters and Lucinda, Radiohead and Beyoncé, The National and Emmylou, Bon Jovi and Buckley, PJ and Posies, Beatles and Bobby D, Françoise and Dusty, Horrorshow and Hot Since 82, Frank Ocean and Laura Marling, Madonna and Underworld. You get the picture. In the accompanying booklet I …
(“What do you mean ‘accompanying booklet’???” You are no doubt asking if you’ve got even a vague idea about how many hours were spent by me and my tolerant, patient, loving, far smarter and more able wife and daughter, designing, laying out, printing and cutting to size the blasted thing. “Have you ever thought about getting a life?” Baby, this IS my life.)
… anyway, in the accompanying booklet I explained why each artist mattered, who had played a role in my discovering of them, sharing of them, or my experience of them then and later. It was a shout out and thank you to friends and lovers as much as an explanation - or a confession often enough - and so much of it can be captured in one word. Learning how to listen, learning how to dance, learning how to write, learning how to care, learning how to love, learning how to be an adult, learning when not to be an adult. Learning. Still learning.
I realised, reading it again, that these songs and these artists and these experiences were just variations of me figuring out who and how to be. Sometimes desperately hoping to be shown; often curious and excited.
It wasn’t that I was modelling myself on any of these individuals: whatever I thought of the music I was no hero worshipper – that way lay monsters, for sure and for real – and I figured eventually that they didn’t necessarily know any better than me what these songs were saying.
Rather it was that each of them put a layer in it, slipped a new coat over it, or chipped away at something there to expose it. The “it” being who the hell I was.
And at any stage, right up to the excessive playing of one track in the month before this birthday – like some 12-year-old discovering the greatest thing. Ever! And bugger the neighbours – I could never have said with complete confidence, yep I get it, that’s me, I’m good with that.
Still can’t. I’m still putting on an old record, discovering someone or something new, digging into the brain of my old friend and longest-lasting fellow explorer/mentor, cranking up the volume, and asking what can you tell me? Why haven’t you fixed me yet? Why haven’t I fixed me yet? Am I ever going to be better at this or does the dark just take different shapes?
Which is a problem, isn’t it? At my age?
Ah well, I’m sure I’ll be able to do this right if I can just find the right song to teach me. One day.
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