One song, two places.
It’s The Breeders ATP in 2009. In a rank little chalet we’re gathered round a crazy-small stereo perched in a living room, dancing like it’s Heaven, lit by a telly screening b-movies. There are too many people in the room for anyone to be remotely comfortable and ‘Brothersport’ comes on. Pete grabs the stereo, sets it on the window ledge, pops the window open out and jumps through it. It’s a ground floor chalet, but you get the sense he’d have done it even if it was on the third. We take the dance party onto the grass between the chalets and a gang of others join us. Everyone screams “MATT!” at the right moments. It is my birthday. It is brilliant.
It’s Montreal in 2009. My plans for three weeks of writing ebb away as I realise I basically just need to be on holiday. I’m broke like you wouldn’t believe. I start going on long walks around the city. Merriweather Post Pavillion is a standard by that point – I think I only had that and some King Creosote records on my mp3 player after a syncing failure – and there’s maybe just two days where I don’t wind up dreamily stomping about with that in my ears. On one day I do the same walk twice, up Mount Royal, once listening to the album on my own and once in the company of good friends. The memories of the two mush together, and in my head I see the night walk and the dells and the fireflies and the hot summer air while ‘Brothersport’ plays in the background.