I have an issue with new technology. I’m not entirely sure why I don’t embrace things immediately, but I was always worked under the guise of if it’s not broke, don’t fix it. This was a tremendous attitude to have as a fairly poor kid from a working class family. Each piece of technology me and my brothers accumulated were stolen, borrowed or paid for through the painstaking cleaning jobs (as well as her full time job) my Mother undertook. We had a N64 which we successfully stole from the hands of an ex-boyfriend of my Mums, I had a game boy I stole from Alan Parry from school (I’m sorry if you’re reading this Alan) and my first guitar was pinched from a dump site (a regular place to visit when you needed old and rusty golf clubs). It wasn’t until I had moved out, was earning money and everyone else started getting them that I bothered with any apple product. I now thoroughly enjoy it, but I assume that’s because of the way society has adapted as opposed to my own, unchanging and superfluous thoughts on technology. I, to have finally adapted and life continues with less money and more tweets.
Before my iPhone, the only way in which I could listen to music was via a tiny, very oddly shaped MP3 player. It was about 3 inches in size, was neither oblong nor rectangular and had very small play, stop and skip buttons. 3 months in of owning this particular product, I found out you could access folders as opposed to files, which meant a whole new regime of organising my music. The memory on the MP3 player was tiny and I soon worked out that if I was clever, I could fit 4 albums on it – or 5, if I disposed of filler tracks, bonus tracks or the singles everyone hears. I would take the train from Portsmouth Southsea to Newmarket, Suffolk every other weekend and my weekend adventures would begin with a critical and tough two hour routine of deciding which albums would accompany my 5 hour journey. The beautiful English docklands soon turned into to the industrial heights of London and my AAA battery would die. At Waterloo station I would dive into my bag, pull another battery from the mess inside and soon the smell of London would be replaced with the smell of the great English countryside. To chaperone my thoughts and these wonderful sights, I had 4 staple albums.
Sigur Ros – Takk.
There is something which defies explanation with Sigur Ros. I have met people who “don’t get them” and I’ve always fluttered around angrily desperately trying to explain the unexplainable. I’ve thought long and hard about it and I’ve now resigned to the fact that it’s because their music resonates at a vibration unseen by me and others. It’s the type of music which has the direct line to your most inward, vulnerable feelings. The kind of emotions that are squidgy, untouched and tender. Sigur Ros are the soundscape of the stark opposite of the places I have grown up in. This particular album presents a beautiful view on the world and it is an Eden which is completely unseen by me. It’s escapism in its more pure state.
Electric President – S/T.
I discovered Electric President in school (roughly 2006). It was during the days of aMyspace and I had to record their music via a computer microphone in order to listen to it on my MP3 player. They hadn’t really made an impact on the world in any way which meant I was able to message the singer Ben Cooper directly. It was essentially me pouring from my fingertips about how brilliant he was and him graciously replying. During a period of music which was dominated by The Kooks and topshop English indie music, yet again the unknown American towns offer an alternative. Electric President was to me what I assume Brian Jonestown Massacre was to someone who was sick of Brit pop. It was an entirely new concept to my ears and I was infatuated immediately. It was recorded in a shed and had big electronic drums, eerie guitars and a man who, when he sung, sounded broken and sad. A few years after I had discovered them, I was watching TV and this broken voice began to sound track a Nikon advert. Finally, an unknown who deserved exposure had defied all odds. It was a music industry rarity. I sunk into my seat and smiled. They are now yours to keep, I thought. Enjoy.
The Smiths – My own compilation (a makeshift best of)
Ever since my step dad introduced me to them, the Smiths (and Morrissey) have been the staple of my life. They are a band you fawn and fall over because every word that is said is the most resonating experience of your life (which repeats as the next song begins). I’ve tried to explain it in the past as this: when you’re reading a book and you come across a chapter which is eerily close to your life and you have a moment which makes you shiver and wide eyed and emotional – well, that’s my experience with the Smiths. Not every song, but a lot of the songs. The music is often ineffable as it jumps from genre to genre but it’s all sewn together with Morrissey’s voice. A voice which moans, groans, whines and churns out lines that are effortlessly poetic, profound and sometimes hilarious. Their legacy is untarnished and they are truly one of the greats. For those people who don’t like them, never ‘got them’ or think they’re overrated – that’s fine. I’m surrounded by those people on a daily basis – the inevitable “did you hear them before 500 Days of Summer?” churlish offenders. To them I reply “I hope one day, you feel as joyous over music as I do when I get to listen to the Smiths…
Blur – The best of…
Yes, it’s very much arguable that I’ve put Blur’s best of as one of the albums I chose to put on the MP3 player but I’m very willing to explain. Before I begin, the self titled album is my favourite. It’s effortless and shows progression to an absolutely extraordinary degree. ‘Song 2′ was also the first song I had heard, so any nostalgia of Britpop that those middle aged, ex-London living, ‘the last ever party’ enthusiasts was never present for me. I discovered Blur in one of their most interesting periods and thank god I did. As I grew up playing ‘Song 2‘ in Daniel Hobbs’ bedroom, I was absolutely blown over with the simplicity of the song. It was like a nursery rhyme which made you want to kick the teacher in the shins. It was fucking fantastic. Punk music always appealed to me as any old person could do it. I feel like ‘Song 2‘ epitomises that notion. As my pre-pubescent years turned into grumpy teenage years, ‘Beetlebum‘, ‘Tender‘ and ‘This is a Low’ were there for me to get sulky to. The defiant ‘Britishness’ of it all helped too as it wasn’t Nirvana. Nirvana and Kurt Cobain were there for me to get angry with and I could resonate with the crabbiness of it all, but when I saw interviews, read books and watched videos of them that connection began to falter. With Blur, they spoke like me and looked like me and they got angry too. ‘Parklife’ was a humorous and gallant example of horseplay and for a kid who liked drama, I loved it. I could pull on my fake suspenders, walk around the house like a cockney and pretend to be Phil Daniels. In fact, who wouldn’t want to do that?
The best thing about Blur is for me, they combine escapism with realism and that’s a tough thing to achieve because it’s paradoxical. They have enough in their discography to lose yourself to and you can indulge in your sad thoughts and have someone over your shoulder, nodding in agreement. But they also have those songs which make you want to dance and escape. They sing about things you understand, but nothing so gritty that makes you hate England. They are an incredible celebration in a village town hall – A situation you so dearly and secretively love, but also want to shrug about because it’s two minutes from where you went to school. They survive with the smiths and long should they be celebrated.
The train would shudder to a stop and I’d tumble from the doors with my suitcase. I would walk thirty minutes from the train station to my childhood home where my Mum would usually be waiting with a spag’ bol and a glass of wine. These albums, though earned through other means are now the albums which remind me of that particular memory: my Mum on the sofa at home with the biggest grin on her face. Now I’m 24, postgraduate and in a mid-midlife crisis – Damon, Morrissey, Ben and Jonsi and the other lads are there to take me home. They are the responsible adults who remind me that, no matter how tough life gets – at least you don’t have to carry those fucking AAA batteries around anymore.
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