The other night, after dinner out with friends, Diane and I drove home through a rainstorm that alternated between annoying and heavy, all while listening to a recent “deluxe version” of an album that, though it initially hit the streets in “un-deluxe” form back in August, we’d yet to hear. Road-testing an album is the ultimate test, of course, especially—as we were—on a ride long enough to play it from start to finish. The sounds tend to fade into the background when sheet after sheet of rain blankets the windshield, however, and such it was this night. I missed as much as I heard.
Comfort music, on the other hand, bounces its melodies and rhythms on the bed of memory so, no matter the distractions, we don’t miss a thing. We know every note, chord and drum fill in our favorite songs; our mind fills in any gaps. The same’s true of albums, too. They’re filed in the brain’s storage bins in an order somewhat akin to the Dewey Decimal System, easily retrieved. It’s one reason, I think, why longtime fans of veteran artists sometimes experience a dissonance when playing best-of collections; we’re so accustomed to Song B following Song A, not Song C or D, that it causes a synaptic misfire when what we expect next fails to materialize. Then, just as we’ve grown accustomed to the new order, a new collection upends everything yet again.
For instance, despite its flaws—and my brain frequently splintering—I’ve been playing the recent Wings compilation a fair bit when out and about. I know the songs’ album homes like the back of my hand, having grown up with them and still playing them from time to time. (See here and here for more.) But I also play the Wingspan: Hits and History collection, released in 2001, as well, primarily when running errands. (Continuity matters not when you’re in and out of the car multiple times over the span of a half hour.) As a result, when “Band on the Run” hits the speakers, my subconscious expects—as on the Band on the Run LP—“Jet” to follow and, if not that, then—as on the Wingspan CD—the journalistic “Another Day.” The same’s true with other artists, as well. When leaning on Neil Young’s soul, for instance, I skip his mammoth Archives (though III has a lot going for it) and listen to specific albums.
Why this came to me while driving through that rain: I’m contemplating the future of this blog. In some respects, the first paragraph is an apt metaphor for my 2025; I’ve listened to hundreds of new albums and EPs yet sometimes feel as if half the songs slipped past my ears, unheard. I spend much of time focused on what’s next, not what is. Maybe it’s time to pull to the shoulder of the road, ask Siri to play an old favorite, and let the storm pass?
The Old Grey Cat 