I've been tracing the roots of some of my favorite music--where I first heard it, who introduced me to it, how it has figured into the soundtrack of my life so far. There is lots of good stuff in the archives, and a ton of it has come from my older brother. I remember sitting in his room when I was in junior high, shortly after I discovered the Beatles (a thousand times thank you, Aunt Mimi!). I had only experienced the pre-Rubber Soul Beatles at that point--good boys for the most part, still the hand-holding type, not the why-don't-we-do-it-in-the-road, LSD gobbling geniuses they evolved into a year or two later in their careers. So when he pulled out his vinyl copy of the white album and carefully turned it backwords with his index finger, revealing the hidden secrets of Paul McCartney's supposed untimely death, he BLEW. MY. MIND. and unknowingly changed the direction of my musical compass. Forever.
Every few years, he tosses me another one. A mix CD, back when people still made those, back before he had kids and there was time to share music so thoughfully and with such painstaking precision. Back then. Or just the mention of a band he'd seen recently, I immediately find something they've got on Spotify and listen to the whole album (a treat in this shuffle, playlist friendly era.).
Thanks, Paul, for Mates of State. For Sufjan Stevens. For Dealership. And for They Might Be Giants 26 years ago.
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