What a cop-out yesterday’s post was. RSS brigade, I am sorry. I owe you more. I should be writing about music, and I’m not. I’m writing about me – when I can be bothered.
Plan B magazine has been coming up a lot recently in conversation. Well, I’ve been bringing it up. It’s five years since it shut, something I know because I met my ex-girlfriend at its closing party. The credits list in the final issue mushes together so many parts of my life for the years immediately before and after that it’s crazy; comics folk, small pressers, friends, mentors, heroes, a lover.
I believe Plan B was at its best when the authors bled through. When the flashes of people drew you to the music, not the music writing. I remember sitting in parks in Brighton and Stockholm and London talking with different people about what that magazine meant and the ways of thinking it represented.
There might well have been a couple of thousand of us who felt like that but I bet those few thousand people – through a certain lens – will be shown to have left sticky fingerprints over all of culture.
So, I’m not writing about music. Sorry. I’m not very good at that.
Four years ago I wrote about a song that gave me a nightmarish earworm before I tried to drift to sleep one night. Now, at the moment I’ve got no go-to sleeping songs. If I did I’d have them on hard repeat. See, I’ve been sleeping badly for months now. Nested anxieties have just stopped me drifting off, which a few weeks back I started powering through with over-the-counter medication. Nothing too strong or serious, but stuff that left me feeling I’d had a seriously unsatisfying sleep. No dreams, no comfort. Just awake/sleep/morning.
(I wasn’t going to write this next bit, but I’ve just seen a string of tweets about mental health and read a very moving edition of Dan Hon’s newsletter… and I don’t need to blog for work or exposure, I just need to write at the minute…)
I saw a therapist on Wednesday, and I came away feeling awesome. I’d seen someone for a first session about a month ago, and it really wasn’t any good, so I tried someone else on the recommendation from a friend and the experience hit home exactly right. Very pleased I went.
Walking away I felt that dozy tingle in your head you get when you’ve slipped between fresh sheets and duvet. Really crisp and really luxurious. I had one album on my iPhone that’d play to that mood and it was Tycho’s Awake.
Awake‘d have pissed me off five years ago. It’s damn close to advert-fodder. But there’s a lot driving the tracks, enough going on that leaning a head against a car or train window will guarantee the landscape syncs up with it. It’s good music to travel to, and I hope I’ll be doing a lot of that over the next few months. Napping at altitude. “Plains” on repeat. That’s my summer.