Back to where I was

The one thing better than finding a new song to get obsessed over is digging up old tunes and rekindling the love you first felt for them. Nothing like scrolling down your music files when you suddenly experience an instinctual pull toward an album or an artiste whose songs you have half-forgotten, and, overwhelmed by the need to answer the call of your mouse pointer, you play the tracks. And then…bam. You are sucked into the whirlpool of musical reminiscence, crying, “Oh sweet notes, how hath thy ears forgotten thou?” 

And you spend the next three or so hours being awed by your indisputable taste in music. Not that I have ever stopped being awed by everything I do.

I would, however, like to mention that I build my playlist on the foundations of random clicking of YouTube music video links. While I do get songs off the radio, to be googled and sung to shamelessly later, I prefer opening my current favorite track on YouTube, blindfold myself as best I could against prejudices, then trust my guts to expose my ears to new music. Thus, a revisit to those discovered a year ago can be quite inspiring. Artistes like Ed Sheeran, Bon Iver, Damien Rice, Mumford and Sons, and others I have came to love, all began appearing in my Finger On Repeat Button file with a “Hey, that song title sounds cute/interesting, let’s give it a listen!”

They are pretty much now a permanent resident on the expansive real estate of my external hard disk, should album collections of my idols equate to owning sprawling mansions, and single tracks of solo acts and bands sizing up to terrace houses.

I always appreciate an opportunity to admire my taste in music throughout the years, that is constantly evolving and growing; a ‘notated’ diary reflecting my mindset and thoughts during particular moments. But what I do not appreciate is having my intuition decide three in the morning is a perfect time to take a stroll, or a crawl, more like, down My Life’s Soundtrack lane.

As if my biological clock is not messed up already, never mind the fact that my creativity spurts tend to happen only after midnight. They say it is always darkest before the dawn. Lucky them, sleep comes easy when your world is pitch black. For me, it is often as not flashing neon-rainbow bright before the dawn; it is rather hard to doze with story ideas frying your eyeballs crisp.  

So, I am now reviving my Eric Hutchinson phase while typing this out, inspired in parts by the familiar rhythm and melody, and by the surge of neurological activity churning within my skull.

Next up, Augustana perhaps?