It would be overly dramatic to say that music has saved my life this year but there's no doubt it has been there to pull me through and has provided moments where I have been, temporarily, transported out of myself. Grief has been permanent- changing but still permanent- and music has been one of the ways through which I have been lifted out of it, even if only for a few minutes.
Back in December 2021, in the week or two immediately after Isaac died, I didn't listen to any music. The grief was so raw and so harsh, so present in my body. I never knew that emotional pain could be so physically painful, that it could actually hurt so badly. There was a Saturday afternoon in December were I sat in our back room. It seemed like it was dark all day and that that particular Saturday afternoon would drift on endlessly forever. Eventually I played a record from the pile near my feet, Promise by SUSS, which I'd bought not long previously (although it came out in 2020). SUSS play ambient Americana/ ambient country, and the album is a quiet wash of gentle drones and sounds, pedal steel, e-bow guitar, mandolin and so on, with loops. If I remember correctly, I just needed something to take away the silence in the room, ambient music to provide something else to focus on while sitting staring into the room.
Home
As the afternoon wore on I was able to sit on the sofa and listen to wordless, largely ambient music and it helped in some way. I played both sides of Promise and when it finished I plugged my phone into the stereo and played what was then the latest in Richard Norris' monthly Music For Healing ambient releases, December. The music couldn't take the pain away but it seemed to provide something, a salve of some kind. After forty minutes of Music For Healing I pulled out a record from the pile near to me, the records that were either most recently bought or taken from the shelves because I wanted to listen to them- the pile was all from before Isaac's death. A few records in was the recent re- issue of Victorialand by Cocteau Twins. The gauzelike guitars, ambient-ish haze and Liz Fraser's voice all became part of that afternoon.
The Thinner The Air
During 2022 I've been to lots of gigs, more than in any single since the late 80s/ early 90s I think, when gig going was cheap and weekly. Some were bought as presents last Christmas- we had no time to do any real Christmas shopping for each other in the aftermath of Isaac's death. In January I saw Half Man Half Biscuit at the Ritz. A month later we saw John Cooper Clarke with Mike Garry and Luke Wright at the Bridgewater Hall. I saw John Cooper Clarke again in November at the Apollo supporting Squeeze courtesy of a friend with a spare. A few weeks ago the same friend gave me a ticket for Stereolab at the New Century Hall. In between I've seen a revelatory Ride doing Nowhere at the Ritz, Paul Weller at the Apollo, Andy Bell upstairs at Gullivers, The Charlatans doing Between 10th And 11th in full and then the hits at the New Century Hall, Echo And The Bunnymen in imperious form at Manchester's Albert Hall, Ian McCulloch solo (with a band) at Nantwich Words and Music Festival, Pete Wylie and Wah! at Night And Day, Warpaint (also at the Albert Hall), Pet Shop Boys at the arena and Primal Scream at Castlefield Bowl. Quite a few of these were courtesy of the generosity of friends, something I'm really grateful for.
At some of these gigs I've cried, sometimes completely unexpectedly and overhwlemingly. At Echo And The Bunnymen in February the opening chords and first verse/ chorus of Nothing Lasts Forever reduced me to a mess of tears, I almost dissolved completely. In September The Charlatans' North Country Boy made me cry, Mike Garry's poetry did it, Pete Wylie did it more than once, Pet Shop Boys too with Being Boring. None of these tears have been a bad thing, they've all hit an emotional spot that connected me to Isaac in some way. As well as the tears (and the looks from other gig goers that a middle aged man crying at a gig can bring, followed by me shrugging and smiling) these gigs have provided moments where I've been transported out of myself for a while- for a song or for an hour. Good gigs can do that anyway, provide an act of communion between band and crowd, between music and people, but the act of being transported away somewhere else is a magical one and not much else has been able to do it this year.
In October I DJed at the Golden Lion in Todmorden as part of The Flightpath Estate group, five of us supporting and warming up for David Holmes. The memories of that afternoon and evening still linger and of Holmes' set in that packed pub, four hours of dance music, the transportative effect of music once again lifting me up and out of myself.
In a year where grief and pain have been ever-present, where the physical manifestations of bereavement have been there almost every single day, where the loss of Isaac has been such a huge sucking black hole in our lives, music in all its forms- that long ambient afternoon last December, experienced live at gigs, listened on record, streamed through the computer, listened to via headphones while out walking, bought from Bandcamp and burned to CD to play in the car, played on a tinny portable speaker on a balcony in Gran Canaria in July- has often been the answer. It won't bring Isaac back- nothing will- but at times it makes being without him something that can be borne or briefly make the loss and his absence fade for a while.
Vapour Trail, the final song from Ride's Nowhere when it came out back in 1990 and the set closer at the 30th anniversary tour, was a beautiful moment at the Ritz, a crowd of middle aged and their late teenage/ early twenties children singing along to the swirling guitars, pounding drums and Andy Bell's declaration of love. Music is the answer.
Vapour Trail
