Music does strange shit to you. We all remember what tune was playing when we kissed such-a-person (Stone Roses, I wanna be adored) or what we used to play when seducing people (I always liked a bit of Stina Nordenstam) or what was swirling around the room when this or that hallucinogen kicked in (Pulp, Common People, actually). But once you settle into work and real life, music slowly becomes less, more background and less soundtrack.
But even as we plough onwards through life, music can sometimes nail the moment and make it shimmer. Take me, at age 33 – long past my formative years, an ould fella looking forward to no more that a few pints of Guinness at the weekend, eating dinner in front of the telly in my underwear, and socks for Christmas – getting dumped. Not your normal dumping either, but a modern, up-to-date dumping by e-mail. Live by the Internet and die by the Internet, I guess. And no names mentioned either, I wound surely hate to make Åse B…m feel bad, even though it was a couple of yeas ago.
Anyway – two nasty, horrible, bleak days after the mother of all dumpings, I bought Pink Moon, by Mr. Nick Drake. I played that thing 3 or 4 or 6 times a day for a few weeks and it saved my life. I have never heard something so terribly sad and uplifting at the same time. I still can’t listen to it without getting shivers, but I listen to it very often. Right now, in fact, for the second time tonight.
I hope I don’t have to wait until the next emotional crises until I find something else as good.