It’s always that song, isn’t it? The one that makes my knees tremble, the one that makes my soul a bit darker, the one you always loved, the one I love myself – the one I hate and loather because it reminds me of things that are not there, not anymore. But see, that damn song plays everywhere – it follows me wherever I go. In bars, in various playlists, in that forgotten MP3 player, and on that CD I made for you. Cliché isn’t it? We don’t even use CDs anymore; some hipsters have even gone back to vinyl. Don’t even mention cassettes, no one knows what they look like anymore.
Amazing isn’t it? It is only one song. The lyrics are not merry, as any pop creation should have. They are slow, they pierce through the skin and down to the flesh they burn you all the way to the heart. The chords are familiar, they strike too close to home. And all you’ve felt up to that point is nostalgia. For things that happened at one point in the past, or did not happen for that matter. Nostalgia is poisonous, and a song can do that to you. It can bring you to your knees and keep you in the mud indefinitely.
Hate the metaphor, not very musical huh? But, see, music does that to you. It paints images in your head that are more disturbing than an impressionist painting. Think of Van Gogh in auditory form. Think of rain outside and apartments with the heat on and hot tea, or chocolate, or finger food and a book.
And then I’m falling for you once more, just like the song says, but it only lasts as long as the refrain.
See, Dylan got a Nobel award for literature. What do you make of that, really? We don’t associate books with places, or people, for that matter. Why do we make that mistake with music? Is it its transience, its ephemeral nature?
The song will start and you will be instantly transported to another universe. You’ll wait with your eyes open and your ears tuned for those first lyrics because you’re not sure yet, you’re ambivalent. Do you like it because it reminds you of another melody, or is the originality that makes uncanny connections in your brain?
I’m not sure, myself. See, I only love you till the song ends. Then I’ll get back to my simulacrum that has replaced real life, I will only feel alive as long as my singer/songwriter allows me to. I’ll have an orgasm at the song’s crescendo; you can join me if you want to, it will be majestic, I reckon.
Hear that scratch, the vinyl is about to be over. I am a hipster it seems, after all, and this auditory experience is concluding on a rather sad and melancholic tone. As all good songs, as all good sex, it leaves us craving for more.
But you are not what I am looking for – you only fill a gap that is much larger than you are.
Don’t forget your pants on your way out.
Time for the other side of the vinyl.
Let the other one in on your way out.