I was one of those people who, in their teens, transcribed song lyrics off the radio, who would make up imaginary tour schedules for imaginary bands, who would get to gigs for the opening of the doors so I could stand in the front row all night unmoving, listening intently from the first note of the opening act to the last cheer for the headliners’ encore. It was an odd sensation: music had been such a defining part of my life since my childhood that to find myself not caring felt somehow wrong, as if I’d shed a part of myself. I’d go through phases of wild enthusiasm for genres – powerpop, post-rock – before realising I was trying to convince myself I was still in love. I’d read a review of something interesting, go out and dutifully buy it, take it home and listen a few times, then consign it to the shelves. It was more that the thrill had gone from the relationship: me and music were together out of habit, doing things this way because it was the way we’d always done it. I was still buying too many albums, still going to too many gigs.
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