Sixfoot6.com - Putting Stuff Away.

Lately every song seems to hang on my heart with twice the usual amount of nostalgia. Favorite tunes hearken back to favorite places with too much emotional clarity, too much distraction for the regular workday. Pop songs I never liked in the first place now make me long for proms I never attended in high schools that don't exist, during eras that don't even map to my own adolescence. Albums I first gestated in the late 90s now seem impossible to divorce from their original timescapes; Odelay, Bossanova, Hello Nasty, and TNT in particular have more interest in memory than music.

Maybe all of this modern grownuppedness (marriage, proper job, multi-responsibilities, travel, settling down far from home) has up-kodakchromed those lazy days of college summers: chicken on the grill, croquet on the lawn, smoke on the patio, the guys in the pond. No plans, just one day at a time. Those were always the glory days, but now the music cheats, presenting them as some kind of high water mark, no longer accessible.

So the counter-attack is clear: do whatever it takes to fill every new night, weekend and vacation with the joy of those days, and then some. The music itself doesn't know any better.