I haven't written here in a while. With my final synopsis of my London voyage, I put it all out there, warts and all. From there, I separated myself from the internet. I continued with a collection of flippant 140-character entries, but lost the desire to share everything with everyone. I want to think before I post. This blog particularly, I hope to be a meaningful and concise take on my own adventures and the things that I love.

While this platform has transformed into a sprawling tome of my travels and what I've encountered along the way, lest we forget, it all began as a simple way to express my admiration for music. Its what mattered most then. In the intervening time, much has gone on. From an Argentine summer to uprooting myself to London, this blog has documented every journey. Even still, its always been about music. It somehow instigates every adventure I undertake, creating its own linear timeline. Most memories are punctuated by music, with each song sending me reeling into those back pages.

The remarkable emotion of truly loving a piece of music, or the collection of musicians who crafted it, is unfamiliar to most everyone. The pure and sublime ability to move the listener in a way completely unlike anything else. Some may say its unimportant, they're jaded. Its what leads people to write about it, read about it, photograph it, aspire to play like it, or simply listen to it time and time again. Music is classic. Music is important.

These are the songs that soundtracked my life in London, and other times too. As I listen to this stunning collection of music, I'm reminded of the remarkable ride I was on. Soon I will embark on a new one. Music will accompany me and it will be grand. I expect nothing less.

Ceremony, New Order


Of any song, it is New Order's cinematic debut single that most encapsulates my six months abroad. Mojo did a feature on the early days of New Order, leading to the ambient brilliance of Blue Monday. I transcribed and fact-checked its every word, as the office stereo spun the group's best. I had just come back from a long lunch, as the sun streamed in from New Compton Street. It was one of those blissful sunny days in London, the kind that make everyone gush about the weather. Everything about the day was simple and perfect. Just as I sat down and began to swivel in my office chair, Peter Hook's bass began to throb. As the guitar surged, the song flourished into a textured collage of sounds. Though possessing a sensuous glow that enraptures with every listen, it also carries a coldness, like the air-conditioned studio it was recorded in. From that moment on, Ceremony accompanied many moments. Whether walking to work or touching down on an airport runway in Los Angeles, Ceremony enhanced every minute.


Surf's Up, The Beach Boys


As I palmed through Mojo 60's, reading about Brian Wilson's drug addled demise, I had a sudden urge to listen to the Beach Boys' most underrated album, 1971's Surf's Up. From Feel Flows to 'Til I Die, this forlorn collection of songs is a stirring look at Wilson's decline, as well as the last bout of true greatness from the group. Stemming from the abandoned Smile sessions of 1966 and 1967, it was the lush title track that gathered my attention this go around. In particular, it was the simplistic, fluid way Brian Wilson hummed "Surf's Up/Mmmhmmm, mmmhmmm, mmmhmmm". Those few seconds meant everything during a week of light rain, minimal sunshine, and brisk walks to the train station. I listened to him hum every morning. Its the hum that bridges the gap between Wilson's meditative ballad and the radiant climax of harmonies. It exemplifies the strength in Brian Wilson's vulnerabilities.


Sailor, Steve Miller Band


Though discovered during Mojo's feature on Steve Miller, it wasn't until I was once again living in the USA (horrid pun intended) that Sailor became a favorite. Glyn Johns joined the band once more for their second studio outing. From the haunting unraveling of Song For Our Ancestors, to the revved-up mirth of Living In The USA, this 1968 blues-psych gem proves the early talents of Steve Miller.


Live at Ronnie Scott's, Jeff Beck


A mesmerizing live album and an unyielding testament to the ever-evolving talents of Jeff Beck. Though his peers have surpassed him in success, it is Jeff Beck who is truly the last one standing. I was thoroughly enamoured with this DVD upon its release, and became reacquainted with its album in London. It accompanied many wine weekends and rainy walks through Covent Garden. (The shuffling rhythm and cascading licks of Nadia are perfect for rainy walks.) Showcasing Beck's every strength, from the rugged and barbaric (Stratus), to primitive leads over crunching reggae (Behind The Veil), and elegant and operatic slide (Angel). There's also the added perk of Beck's best live band in recent history, Tal Wilkenfeld and Vinnie Colaiuta.


Pi, Kate Bush


Miss Bush was, of course, featured on the cover of Mojo, which inevitably led to office stereo churning out the staff's favorite KB albums. Whether Aerial was played during that time, I'm unsure, but I certainly played it myself. I rode the train through the south of London, as the atmospheric production of Pi filled my headphones. The morning saw the sun grow brighter and I read the provocative tales of the Pre-Raphaelites. Now months later, Pi brings to mind the vivid saga of the despair of Effie Gray, trapped in an unconsummated marriage with the brilliant but troubled John Ruskin, while falling into an affair with the Pre-Raphaelite premier genius, the dazzling John Everett Millais. As a young woman, Kate Bush possessed the same porcelain elegance and doe-eyed allure of the likes of Effie Gray, Lizzie Siddal, and Jane Morris. To associate her with them seems reasonable.


Miles Davis at Isle Of Wight


I find the grace with which Miles Davis transformed his career to be so awing. To take on such sudden change, with such fluid eloquence, and transition so radically. He leapt from such polar opposite ends of the spectrum, yet each was teeming with brilliance. Despite disappointing his loyal bop fans, he carried through with a pioneering energy as he embraced electricity. His performance at the Isle of Wight is primal and uninhibited. He specialised in pure innovation.


Season Of The Witch, Donovan


Of all rain soaked memories (and because I'm discussing London, its excusable), Season Of The Witch was the most wet. I skipped through Soho, balancing in my heeled boots, watching as others ducked beneath umbrellas. My hair was sopping wet, make-up likely running, as I made my way to the photo lab. I made no attempts to dodge the rain. The smell of it and the cryptic and possessed sounds of Donovan made it too good to pass up.


Cowboy Song, Thin Lizzy


This remains the sound of elation, then and now. The bewitching combination of reminding me of my father and the reissues spinning heavily when I first arrived in London only add to its allure. Though the studio take is sufficiently ballsy, the Live And Dangerous is vital. The rousing rhythm section drives, as the duel guitars ascend. Thrilling. Guitar harmonies excite me generally, especially when they reach such towering octaves. To top it all off, you have the swift segue into The Boys Are Back In Town. Alongside the segue from Sick As A Dog to Nobody's Fault on Aerosmith's Rocks, it is a classic moment in music history. It may have been helped along in the studio, but you can't help but feel like you're witnessing something special.

And it is.