Winter to leave.
Usually we would not have batted an eyelid on such trivial revelations; things such as these tend to slip easily even under the biggest radars, or get filed mercilessly into the deepest recesses of our troubled minds and with nary a whimper.
Numbers are numbers are numbers, after all: mostly good on wine but not waistlines, and for hiding one’s age without blushing beetroot red.
This week, I learned that the slow burn intensity of Boxer is still continuing to grow on me each and every day, despite the album having just turned five yesterday; and that the controversial masterpiece, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, is now a glorious 10 years old.
Ten. Candles on the cake. Fingers on both hands. Things to love and hate about you.
I cannot even remember what I had for lunch 10 days ago, let alone events of such epic proportions up to a decade before. Truth is, it is becoming more and more impossible to imagine a time not shaped by those extraordinary soundtracks to our lives. These classics are well and truly becoming the classics, in every sense of the word, of our years. This is no mere runaway rollercoaster ride, nor a turning of the tide, but it does not make these solid facts any easier to put aside.
For between the then and now, we know how far we have come. And it is the fake empires, green gloves, slow shows, ashes of American flags, and little kameras that made it all happen.
I should really stop writing about music entirely.