Beach House. A.K.A. Nutella gelato for the ears.
Traditionally, I have really rubbish taste in music.
I'm not gonna lie. My idea of good tunes are anything that mention getting more ass than a toilet seat. Or a big tattooed black man demeaning hoes and talking about blows. Pretty much, if I would rip off your balls and shove 'em in your eye sockets if you said that shit to me in real life, I probably want you to put it in a song so that I can dance to it.
Paradox, yes. Reasonable enough when on a night out, or a run up in the hills, or as a pick-me-up on the way to an a.m. cappuccino stop I can shake it like Beyonce, despite the fact I'll be sore in the morning and having Lil Wayne asking me if I'm gonna Suck or Not goes against every liberal feminist sensibility in my Emily Pankhurst being? Sorry I'm not sorry.
Bitches need some poppin' beats.
That all said.
I have a friend with impeccable taste in music. This same friend is also so reticent in revealing absolutely anything below the surface of her (hilarious, loving, generous-of-spirit and sunshine-of-mind) everyday self that when one day she said, Can I share something with you that I wrote, in a voice all quiet and shy and lovely, I was all, RIGHT NOW THIS VERY SECOND? YES! And she was all nonchalant and coy as I perused it, and then I was all teary and emotional, and she got embarrassed and hugged me and then excused herself to go to the bathroom when I sobbed and said THANK YOU. THANK YOU FOR GIFTING ME THESE BEAUTIFUL WORDS.
I don't let many people into my heart- not in that snuggly, dark, warts-and-all place that is scary and vulnerable and mushy- but when I do, I love hard. I say things like THANK YOU FOR GIFTING ME THESE BEAUTIFUL WORDS. Which may well be reason enough not to cultivate such friendships in the first instance, now that I think about it.
I cried for two reasons:
One. I cry probably every day, be it for a particularly good salad, or because I work with the most inspiring people on the planet, or because my hair just really behaved itself this morning. My emotions are always just below the surface, so it's anybody's guess at any given moment what might happen.
Two. What she shared with me was a review of one of her favourite bands, and the way she wrote was like poetry to me.
(With this album) the result is an instant lull, followed by a sheepish smile, a deep cleansing breath and a staring contest between my eyes and the sky or the space between my current state of mind and the baggage that has fallen, so effortlessly, from my conscious.
When I had to say goodbye to my friend after a month sharing a hotel room and English camp songs and secrets and pre-dinner drinks that meant my boss accused me of being angry with him when actually, I couldn't look him in the eye because THERE WERE TWO OF HIM, I cried.
When I noticed a folder I didn't recognise on my desktop two days later, under the name Bloom, I knew instinctively it was the album my friend had written about. And so, I cried again.
It has been on my iPod on repeat, over and over and over again.
Daughter of unconscious faith,
time will tell in spite of me...
Drifting in and out, see the road you're on
you came rolling down the cheek,
say just what you need,
and in between it's never as it seems.
Help me to name it.
Maybe it is because it is the way my friend wrote about it, or that she wanted to share it with me, or because Beach House really are that very good, but this album? It's the soundtrack to my summer.
I wanted you to know how good it is, Internet. Listen with me.
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