It's a sweet and meditative thing to sit and listen to Spotify together, shoulders rolled forward in concentration. I am ushered through different places, through other eras, which could mean anything from 70s American country, 80s Portuguese post punk to 90s Italian dance. I typically shoehorn Queen and Kino into everything but I usually urge friends to divulge their knowledge on flamencology or reggaeton and regardless of my own taste, I am always so moved by their passion.
I add songs to playlists, note down the humourous observations they make, how this song is the musical equivalent of a fashion blog whose images make you feel really uncomfortable. I fawn over the minute preferences and how beautifully they are articulated: I like it when the solo is the melody. We sometimes revisit old songs like Bette Davis Eyes and I say: It me, and you say: Yes. Friends, in turn, notify me when Sabrina is performing in their neighbourhood, acknowledging my open desire to be her in the Boys, Boys, Boys promo video clip.
Last night, I received a Facebook message from one of my friends who had bonded with me in such a way. He sent a YouTube clip of I Feel Bonnie, a Hot Chip remix we used to listen to repeatedly, late night at reception. I knew it was a significant song to him, well before it had been presented to me and for that reason, I felt relief that those listening sessions created its own measure of significance. A song needn't have a single association, it can have this impressive duality.
I write all this because I thought I had lost the desire to share my love and enthusiasm for music. It has been difficult to find the space and concentration to make a podcast in London but I realise that the desire to share music has not evaporated, it has simply manifested itself in another way. I hope to return to the routine of research and presentation very soon, but for the moment, I am just learning and sharing in a way that feels more honest and present than anything else.