Fifty records. Slices of sound cut in such a fashion that however esoteric the appeal, resistance (as they say) is futile. If you’re a regular you’ll know what I’m alluding to. If you’re a day tripper, click the Fucked Up Festive Fifty link hiding up there above the words to get stuck in… and whilst you’re here, please don’t feed the animals or damage the flowerbeds; each petal is fashioned from shellac and a the tears of a thousand Echo & The Bunnymen fans.
In a few week’s time I’ll have staggered to the climax of the Festive Fifty – and will thus have to hit upon some other forced music-related concept to comfort an ailing imagination in the blogging years ahead.
Still, this is not a list designed to be in any way definitive; indeed strands of arbitrariness may, at times, have heavily infiltrated the purely subjective – if only because that’s the modus operandi of recollection, the way it salts its chips. Because so much about our interaction with music concerns revisiting the scene of the crime. Listening as a time + place type of affair, rifling through your peepshow, flicker-bug memory to where that attraction to a particular song bit so hard that it’s still biting. I can still recall the precise context of when and where I first encountered the track beneath the words… label me a sentimentalist if you must, but I still recall the specifics of whens and wheres for a significant number of records; the two inferences being A) maybe I should get a life, and B) that fifty track limit’s going to witness some significant tunes on the outside looking in.
Arbitrary, as I said. And then the song below the words: the allure of night and the confidence of memento. One fuck of a deliciously poised slice of music. A rippling entry in a parallel Festive Fifty.
Envelopes / Freejazz