Corridor of Dreams

Loners,

I am so conflicted about Spotify. I use it religiously; it has been an integrated and integral part of my life ever since I abandoned my entire music collection (CDs, vinyl, box sets) on a street corner in Montreal in 2015. I want access to everything, and I have become hooked on the algorithm’s uncanny ability to introduce me to music that I love with a minimal amount of work on my part. I used to think of it as an added benefit of the subscription. Like the protagonist in High Fidelity, but if he worked for Spotify and never made you feel judged.

In high school I had a friend who knew everything about music, especially music that I knew nothing about (hip hop and scratching, especially). I envied his knowledge, and while I knew it was partly something passed down from his older (cooler) brother, he also picked a lot of it up from the indie record shops he frequented. I never felt comfortable in those spaces-- and honestly, I still don’t. They’ve always seemed like places run by men, for other men. It’s a stereotype and one I should probably surrender for good.

Before Spotify, it took a tremendous amount of work to peel back the layers and find the bands that would shape my life. I discovered that world mostly online, and it significantly influenced the kind of writer and musician I am today. I had a lot of time on my hands, for this kind of research and refinement. Especially on tour. I hunted small record stores and indie bookstores, for artifacts. I can still pick up certain books or hear certain songs and recall where I made the discovery.

At first blush, Spotify and my ‘new’ listening habits make all that history—and attachment—feel flatter, less memorable. This isn’t always true, for example, the months leading up to and following Sid’s birth, sound like this. I can assure you I will never forget these songs, because hearing them reminds me of how my life was radically altered.

All this algorithmic listening hasn’t changed me entirely. I become suspicious and aggravated when I hear discoveries I love, and covet, playing at Whole Foods or in a coffee shop—which, honestly, isn’t so different from the time before all of this (this being our hive mind, * the ecstasy of influence *, and the cultural cost to making *the perfect playlist*). I always wanted the bands I loved to be mine and only mine. Of course, I know this is selfish.

*these are references to great writing about these topics*

I’ve given up trying to sort out how I can be both a snob—who loves being part of a small group of people “in the know” about unknowable music—and an artist who proudly, and without regret, infiltrated the mainstream and routinely conspires about how to stay there.

On Monday, I was listening to a playlist when a song jumped out at me. Sounds like The Replacements, I thought, but I couldn’t place the band. Were they new, doing something old? Old, doing something that feels as fresh now as it did then? I punched the + and added it to my liked songs. Later, as I sat in the rain, waiting for Stacy and Sid to join me in the car, I listened to the song twice through.

It's a corridor of dreams that gave me everything I own
And I traveled 'round the world and I never really had a home
And the one thing I learned was I never want to be alone
I was oooooh lookin'

Well there's friends that come in, and there's friends that go out of my life
And things which occur when you balance on the edge of the knife
And I never considered the idea of taking a dive
It was oooooh cookin'

It's a messed up, mucked up, crying kind of a place
And sayin' goodbye is something I could never face
It's meant to get easier the more that you have to take
But it's oooooh harder

So take some time, it won't be misspent on me
If you stay another day, I swear I'll make you see
It's not where you are, it's where you feel you should be
And it's where your heart is

I resonate with these words so much. I had never heard of Cleaners from Venus or this song (Corridor of Dreams). Martin Newell wasn’t a name familiar to me, but everything about this sound is. The panned vocals, the jangling electric guitar, the bouncing bass line that prevents the song from disappearing entirely into depression.

This feeling, this sound, is what I found in my early 20s—discovering the bands that inspired the popular, radio-friendly artists I loved (My Bloody Valentine, The Replacements, etc.). Another 25 years on, and now the music makes me think of my parents’ generation and my own as being so much closer than they ever felt when I was a kid. Time compressing, collapsing in on itself.

There’s something about homesickness here too. Loneliness. Connecting and disconnecting. I have had so many friends come in and out of my life. I also traveled around the world and never really felt like I had a home. Lately, I feel a low-grade fear—or maybe it’s just anxiety—about traveling and leaving home.

For the first time since I was a kid, I’m established, rooted deep into this place. A city, a house. But more than that, it’s a rhythm—a familiar flow of days that fold into each other. Boring sometimes, but also gentle. A figure and form that is both familiar and new, because it has never been the shape of my adulthood.

I like it when a song makes me feel this way, makes me think this way. I hope you make some discoveries that excite you this week.

—Sara

**The audio recording of this post includes music, and the written post has links to those songs. Highly recommend listening along!