I thought about this again the other day. The seeing, feeling, of sound. Slumped on my sofa, re-watching one of the millennium greats, High Fidelity, an adaptation of novelist Nick Hornby’s romantic comedy of errors and perhaps one of the most authentic portraits of modern love. In one scene, Rob, a record store owner feeling confused and crumbled by yet another relationship breakdown, decides now would be a good time to sort through his own vinyl collection. A friend, upon seeing the wreckage, asks how he’s organising it.
“So, what is this, chronological?”
“Autobiographical…If I want to find the song Landslide by Fleetwood Mac, I have to remember that I bought it for someone in the fall of 1983 pile but didn’t give it to them for personal reasons.”
For as long as I can remember, music – up there with TV I can fall asleep to, someone to laugh with, and words that feel like a bath for my brain, leave it with me – has been an undying source of comfort, as is the nostalgia attached to how it arrived in my ears. Doubtlessly I was a sponge to whatever my parents played growing up. An eclectic mix: car journeys with mum could be filled blasting to deafening volumes Queen, Fatboy Slim, and some of the saddest heartbreak songs you’ll ever listen to. Later, there were some boyfriends, a few playlists. Mostly, though, I’ve discovered, continue to discover, songs onscreen.