I have to admit, these LA rains have awoken a somewhat low-key, pragmatic sense of nostalgia (excepting the negatives, of course). But something about being semi-confined to a room these past few days, with the endless downpour softly pattering on the windows, has inevitably reminded me of home–a place where downpours were more commonplace, bestowing me with hours of daydreaming.
Well, circumstances have changed, somewhat–including the time and propensity available to endlessly plan and ponder what-ifs. Even my music tastes have shifted in the past few years, as I somehow pressured myself to not spend so much time either searching for –or listening to– new music, in a somewhat self-flagellating quest to “get stuff done.”
And, plot twist: I did get epic amounts of stuff done, at the cost of a somewhat more emotionally arid life experience–perhaps a post for my hypothetical memoirs.
Anywho! Back to the point. The gentle promptings of the rain led me through an existential rabbit hole where I drifted and typed my way back to an old Last.fm profile, driven by the urge to reclaim some of my idle musical proclivities, not without some apprehension: have I become one of those people who consider the music of yore better than the music of now?
Of course, that’s a rather close-minded assumption–the answer being that it depends. It depends on the music, it depends on the artist, it depends on where you look. Well, for the purposes of this expedition, I decided to look at my last.fm profile for some enticing jams. I stumbled upon Anouar Brahem’s “Eté Andalous,” which last.fm tells me I listened to only once 10 years ago.
Well, I decided to give it a second listen. It turns out that the song could have been picked by the universe itself, because the poignant guitar plucking actually aligns perfectly with the idealistic rain pattering on my window–the rain of idle musings, the cold softening into contemplation.
Gently intriguing with its minimalistic cording is also “Le pas du chat noir,” the title track of its album, evoking a sense of mystery and introspective flâneurism fit for rainy day contemplation:
Overall, a fortuitous foray into the plays of personal yore. Not bad for a song I played once. Like a vintage red, my ears needed some time to grasp the subtle beauty of its sounds.
As an added bonus, Matthew Halsall’s Colour Yes popped up as part of YouTube’s recommendations–a lively, jazzier counterpart to Brahem’s calmer, more introspective sounds, also worth a spin!
Salut à tous,
Ró.
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