The Milk Diaries: Strangers

I had assumed my position, pressed up against the stage of the Corner Hotel. It was an earnest thing to do, after all there only a handful of other people standing around, waiting for Ratcat's support act to appear. I internally smiled at every frantic girl sporting a black and white striped t-shirt. I felt prepped and elated when suddenly a stranger emerged from the guarded doors next to the stage: "You won't believe this, I just interviewed Simon Day for over an hour!" Without qualm or hesitation, I demanded to know every detail of the exchange, requesting a bootleg of the encounter. Just like that, Damo Musclecar and Missy El became friends forever.

We marveled at our similarities to one another, how we both had blogs and a podcast series, we both made zines, we both had previous radio projects. There was still a little gap in our respective areas of music specialisation, he had an encyclopedic knowledge of 70s New York punk and 80s hair metal whereas I lived and breathed 80s British new wave and synthpop. I recognised immediately that Damo possessed this unique kind of passion and enthusiasm that made you want to learn more, regardless of the genre in question. He had a wholehearted willingness to share all that he knew and I could recognise this when he coincidentally managed to define one of my core musical values: "I just want to document genres of music that haven't been properly documented before."

Damo stood alongside me during the show, among the girls squealed and swooned in the front row. Rose petals fluttered across over the stage and over Simon's Beatle boots. Fuzzy moments from the Tingles EP suddenly became real, shared and distorted. I wished for songs they'd never play, like Good Buy, Holiday and World in a Wrapper. Any sophisticated appreciation for their music was superseded a sudden onset of fangirl hysteria on my part. It was largely inspired by a look from Simon during the introductory moments of That Ain't Bad. This undermined any musical credibility I had established with Damo and I apologised profusely for it, explaining that I just had a moment with the most perennial of teen crushes. Damo reassured me that it was OK, insisting that he would introduce me to Simon after the show.

It did happen: Damo managed to convince the bouncer to let me "backstage", a corridor and small holding room held together with MDF, stained carpet and gaffa tape. We waited round and I felt more awkward than most, assuming a place among the band's friends and crew. Damo and I leaned against the side of the stage and discussed Bret Michaels at length before we realised it was time to accost Simon in the adjoining alleyway. It's embarrassing to recall the details of it now, my flushed cheeks and my inadequate, unrehearsed praise. Damo set about documenting the moment on camera, one such photo had my head in my hands and my hair flipped over my face in what was an ineffectual attempt to obscure my embarrassment. It was a wild moment after a night which managed to reaffirm so much.

I recalled all this today, when someone asked me why I have such a predilection for the musical past. I immediately quoted what Damo said to me because he managed to articulate the motives of fans creating culture in such a thoughtful way. He made me realise that I want to lead a life where I create and honour musical histories, fleshing them out and make them real to those who missed it the first time round.

The Milk Diaries: Solos

I live with this perpetual gratitude that I live among the most kind and interesting local and international travellers, among guests who quickly become cherished friends. I am fortunate, in that although we are only together for a limited time, we make a conscious decision to reconvene each night to openly gush: I really have to play you this song I heard today, I think you would really love it...

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.

The most memorable song recommendation occurred one April night in 2006. I was upstairs at the Tote when I was suddenly accosted by a random man holding a second generation iPod: "You absolutely have to listen to this song!" As he untangled the white wires and cued up the track, he gushed breathlessly, never stopping to mention the artist or the song name. The song was ready. Armed with one earbud each, we sat down together on what I could only assume must have been a collapsed couch. The song sounded so familiar, that smack of a jangly 12-string Rickenbacker, an arpeggio and that masochistic first line: "Just say the word and I would die for you..." I knew it, I definitely knew it, just not the name. "It's the surfing scene in Young Einstein, of course I know this!" He laughed, "Yeah, it's the Stems!" I couldn't help but smile. "It's perfect, it's actually perfect."

It was such a ceremonious encounter that I've never managed to forget it. It lacked context and even conversation, yet it formally introduced me to a scene filled with consequence. Song recommendations don't tend to be so ceremonious now, there's the occasional email attachment or a YouTube link with that requisite exclamation: "This is so so you." Friends have developed the ability to predict my taste with an eerie degree of accuracy and I marvel at their attentiveness (and my predictability). The act of recommending a song can be a bit hilarious too, I chortle upon recalling my old managing director calling me into his office to play me a Russian rockabilly cover of Kraftwerk: "I listened to it and I thought, I know who would like this!" It's a such a fond act of cultural assessment and it so frequently occurs without conscious forethought. With friendship comes that willingness to situate and anticipate a person's musical taste.

My romantic vision of the song recommendation took a bashing upon reading the introduction of Tristan Murail's essay, After-thoughts (2000): "Asking people to listen to a piece of music takes some of their time, some of their life: the composer is stealing a little bit of life from each listener." It had never occurred to me that a composer's creative intent could carry such a malevolent component. The suggestion made me consider whether it even had very much to do with time. I particularly refer to all those uninvestigated recommendations: band names scrawled on a scraps of paper, lost in drawers; unplayed yet carefully curated mixtapes, lost in cars. Each song choice carried that hope that you would look into it, but for whatever reason you didn't.

There are other kinds of recommendations that are unaffected by time, they're associated with that desire to share songs with those you can no longer talk to. It appears that there is a vault of lost recommendations: songs you should have paid attention to, songs you should have told them about.

There's another thing, too, you may never get the opportunity to convey the significance of a recommendation. Some time ago, I received an email from a listener who wrote to tell me that he and his girlfriend have bonded over one particular Yé Yé podcast. I felt such happiness and gratitude as I read about how frequently they listen to the mix, dote over the songs and affectionately imitate my back-announcing as some kind of private in-joke. Now they are getting married, they wanted the songs from the podcast to be featured at the ceremony. The correspondence made me think of the nature of online recommendations and how thrilled I was to learn of that story, particularly since it's so unusual to get that kind of insight.

It made me want to go back and thank those people who were generous enough to share their music, knowledge and insight with me, whether it be at loud parties, on blogs or on email. I know it's hardly practicable or realistic, but it would be sweet thing to say "Thank you for telling me about that song, it really meant a lot to me..."

Cassettes & Chocolate Milk: Electro Podcast #63
Perfume - Handy Man
AlunaGeorge - Best Be Believing
Years & Years - Desire
Flight Facilities - Stand Still
Marcella - Cave and Text
Ace of Base - Pole Position
Nottee - Don't Waste Your Light On Me
Marina and the Diamonds - Can't Pin Me Down

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