Sara,
In my twenties, the rattling and rocking of the tour bus as it drove us to our next show would settle me quickly to sleep. I sometimes listened to music in my bunk to unwind, the pulse of whatever band I was obsessed with would work the day’s tension from my body, and I’d drift off mid-playlist like you might during a massage. In my mid-thirties, I swapped singing for talking, preferring podcasts to aid my descent into dreamland. I gave up listening to music before bed because music is visual, and triggers so many thoughts, and emotions; it wakes me up, instead of putting me to sleep. Of course, podcasts get me thinking too, but I listen at a low, barely audible level that leaves me more tired, than excited. The other day when we got that press request to send a song that “provides tranquility” for a playlist related to tennis my response was, “I don't think I listen to music that provides Tranquility. Pass?” You emailed back a track by Brian Eno. It made me anxious. I think we have different ideas about what might inspire calm.
When I’m home, off the road, sharing a bed with Sofia, tranquility is reading. I read until my eyes water and my legs get jumpy; signs my body is ready to rest. On the weekends, I carry my book downstairs and read it with coffee in the morning. Sofia does the same. During the week, she can’t finish more than a page before her eyes start to water and she’s ready to dream. She has an adult job that requires early wakeups and so it’s often just me reading with her sleeping next to me. I love the feeling of being the only one awake. I love how normal and boring reading before bed is. It feels luxurious to read in a bed that isn’t moving, after decades of sleeping on planes and the tour bus. No matter how nice the bus is, or if I’m lucky enough to get a business class seat on a plane, there is no sleep on tour, while we’re traveling, that can come close to a night in my own bed, with a warm body next to me. It’s just so quiet. And I have really started to love the quiet.
When Sofia and I bought our cabin off the coast a few years ago, I was shocked at how it peaceful it was. Our apartment, on the Downtown Eastside in Vancouver, is never noiseless. Even calm nights are littered with the soundtrack of the city: fire trucks, ambulances, motorcycles and yelling. I’ve tried earplugs, but most mornings I wake up with the earplugs in my hand. It seems I don’t enjoy sleeping with them in my ears, but I do appreciate that I still care for them while I sleep. Even after spending half my time the last two years on a remote island, I am still getting used to how quiet it is. It’s so quiet you can hear the deer at night as they make their way through our yard, nibbling and chewing and grazing past. The people who owned the cabin before us modernized it, adding two automated skylights and blinds to the loft upstairs, where we sleep. I never close the blinds and so when I wake up in the middle of the night – which I often do – I stare up at the stars until I fall back asleep. In those moments of insomnia, I almost never feel anxious. All I feel is gratitude that I was lucky enough to end up somewhere so still.
I do sometimes listen to music in the car. Sofia lets me listen to whatever I want. We don’t have the same taste in music, she loves Hip Hop, and Rap, which I don’t mind, but I tend to obsess over pop and indie rock. I know her letting me DJ is a sign of how much she loves me. But lately, I find myself not putting music on when we drive. Mostly we listen to podcasts together. On our long drives, it feels more appropriate than me flipping through songs, constantly changing the mood based on my mood. I try and provide calm, focused energy as a passenger, and music doesn’t do that for me anymore. Plus, Sofia and I like to talk in the car and I cannot have music playing when we talk. To me, it’s distracting to have music and conversation happening in tandem.
For example, the other day you and Stacy were driving Sofia and me back to our car after a BBQ at Mom’s when we got stuck in traffic. You put electronic music on while Stacy and I were chatting. I was in the backseat, Stacy in the driver's seat, and it made it difficult to hear or feel heard. I tried to curb my annoyance. You were staring out the window, clearly regulating yourself after a long day, while we sat in gridlock during the hottest day of the year. Still, it felt deeply disruptive. I fantasized about letting myself out of the car and walking home. But it wasn’t your fault.
Music has become so personal to me, so private. I mostly listen in headphones as I run errands or work out. It’s been years since I’ve had a party at my house or gone to a concert with friends. When I cook, if I do put music on, it’s a playlist and I admit it’s mostly wallpaper. At dinner, Sofia and I always have jazz playing, but she prefers music without words when we’re socializing or reading together on the weekend. It’s odd because when we were young music was always playing in the car, at our house as we cleaned on Saturdays, in our bedrooms after school while we did homework; there was a symphony of noise, and individual soundtracks were playing at all times. In our twenties, on tour, the passenger would play DJ for the driver. The rest of the band and crew would bring books or iPods and entertain themselves on the back benches. I remember that being one of the things both you and I missed when we moved up from a van to a tour bus. No more sing-alongs. No more shared space where we listened to music as a group. There was less bonding, less connection, less music after that.
You and I joke that people get older and see fewer concerts, buy less music, and get less passionate about bands and the culture that surrounds it. We have to work hard to engage our audience and find new people, often younger than us, to keep our band thriving. I talk about this shift like it’s happening to others, but it’s happened to me too. Sort of. When I do find myself getting obsessed with a band or a song, I really lean in. Poor Sofia had to hear Remind Me by Bastille about sixty times in the last month.
I’m back in the city on my own this week and it’s hot. Before I put the air conditioner on last night, I opened all the windows in the bedroom. It was a noisy night; the restaurant downstairs let out after ten and people were talking outside for a long time. My neighbor had his patio doors open and music I didn’t recognize was playing loud enough for me to hear, but not be bothered by. It reminded me of when dad would put on Mike and The Mechanics when we were kids. We never made it past the third song. As I read last night, chatter drifted in the windows, the wail of sirens in the distance joined the melodies from next door, and my eyes started to water, and my legs started to swim. I found myself thinking how nice it would be to put music on. But I never do that anymore. I tried to remember what the first song off our favourite Mike and the Mechanics album was, and then I put my book down in the bed and turned off the light. I barely remember closing my eyes.
Tegan
*All my posts now include descriptions of photos at the end of the audio reading. I’ll try and be better about doing that more often. I am also experimenting with sound and so this episode included clips of the bands I talk about in the email. As well, I left my windows open so you can hear the port and the seagulls and a fire truck even interrupts at some point. I’m curious if people prefer some ambiance, or prefer the quiet, perfect readings? Let me know in the comments.
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