Blank skies, single-digit temperatures, and the sun goes down at 5:38pm. Here in the Middle West, I’m filling the quiet with books and music, absorbed by text and sound in ways I haven’t felt in years
Putting a record on loop is still the best way for me to nail my memories to some kind of texture and timeline.
Music felt more necessary than ever this year.
This year I heard a more spiritual bent in my favorite records, something nervy and apocalyptic that craves refuge.
The endless churn of the digital jukebox brings to mind Adorno and Horkheimer’s phrase from 1944: “the freedom to choose what is always the same.”
A soundtrack for mourning the death of reason.
Soundtrack for leaving Iceland: the choral drift of Popol Vuh which sounds like glaciers, mist, and devotion at 35,000 feet.
Slow-motion strings and liturgical drones from Athens, Greece.
The glorious sound of power lines humming on a Saturday night long before the age of pixels and screens.
