November came and went and winter gaped ahead of me. The hostel was somewhere to sleep and a place to leave my things, but there was no comfort there.
Hearing the music in its original context, I could appreciate it anew and it made me think about how mutable songs were. How a stormy day might crank up the angst in a track, the way putting on a particular jumper could change the colour of your eyes.
It was only as the band members sloped off that they looked a little senior for all this excitement, ready for bed and a Horlicks. The mood in the audience was not just ecstatic but validated.
Unheard music is sweeter. A tongue-in-cheek look at the language of music reviews.
At the time of writing this I am currently on day 132 of self-isolation, with no end in sight. It is the first day of the mandatory mask wearing in Melbourne, Victoria.
And though not the worst/ part of our on-again off-again ways,/ the latest loss of you stings me anew
Reading Almost a Mirror is like listening with anticipation to a new mix tape painstakingly compiled by a friend.
Punk? We've got gobfuls of it. Twenty-odd stories.
...we took it down, we took it further up, further down, rolling on the energy, every time a bit more crazy and loose and loud, louder, quieter, louder, and seven minutes in...
That night I hung out down the back of the venue because the molten mosh pit at the foot the stage was simply terrifying.