Dear RT,

We only spoke on the phone a few days ago and yet I thought it’d be fun to correspond in this old-fashioned way. You told me you have been working on a screenplay – which you still haven’t sent me! – and I wanted to share the form that my writing has taken this year. One of my many goals for 2020 is to write and send 20 letters, and this is letter #16. I’ve found letters to be a quick, low-pressure exercise for my writing muscles as well as a unique, direct way to connect with people I care about. (Plus, it’s fun to send surprise mail!) I’ve never been a disciplined writer, so having a goal and deadline means I’m more likely to finish it. I hope to continue writing consistently in 2021, albeit with a different goal: my current idea is to write fifty mini-essays about my favourite songs. That subject matter isn’t a stretch nor a surprise for me to choose, I know, but a good challenge nonetheless.

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my future is comin’ on

I’ve lived in the same flat in Wapping for 4.5 years, my second longest residence in London. I wrote about my 5.5 years in a converted church in Whitechapel here:

My Wapping abode is the first flat that I’ve decorated and furnished entirely. It’s the most comfortable and peaceful place I’ve ever lived in. Prior to living here — ignoring the pandemic lockdown periods — I never stayed home consecutively. I can’t sit still, in general, and I’m constantly seeking social and cultural stimulation. This flat has instilled in me a contentment and ability to relax that was previously absent. Filled with my records and instruments, colourful art and furniture, plus west-facing windows for afternoon sunlight, I don’t feel the need to be anywhere else.

In my 43 years, I’ve had 16 different homes; this is my favourite.

A couple months ago, I learned that my landlord was planning to sell the flat, which wasn’t hugely surprising given that new legislation, the Renters’ Rights Act, comes into effect on 1 May. Apparently, lots of UK landlords are selling up before May.

This week I received an update on the sale: buyers have been found and, assuming it all goes through, I’ll have to move in the autumn sometime. I was considering leaving when my lease runs out in December anyway, but the impending sale puts me on a six month (give-or-take) timeline to relocate. I always prefer to be the master of my own destiny, but this deadline forces me to figure out what’s next now, rather than put it off, so I’m embracing it.

In fact, I’m taking the sale of my beloved home as a bigger sign, a catalyst for a major life change.

Whilst I love London, and it’s my home city more than any other, I have increasingly wondered what and where else is out there to discover. I’m not unhappy here, but my inner voice whispering “the grass might be greener” is getting louder with each year. To be specific, I suppose my reasons for leaving are:
a) restlessness
b) fears that life is short and my adventurous years are already behind me
c) my predilection for risk has been dormant for a while — in a big-life-move way, that is

Home is where my feet are, but my feet are itchy and these shoes no longer fit right.

I don’t have answers or a plan yet. Right now, I am more certain of what I don’t want than what I should do. Writing and talking about it helps. Research will be essential. And music inspires, of course. I have made a playlist to soundtrack my upcoming planning phase, with a couple tunes to remind me where I live: the greatest place in the world, London.

Probably my favourite song on this playlist is Elton John’s “Honky Cat”. I always find the lyrics hilarious because Elton’s singing about being an American redneck, which neither he nor lyricist Bernie Taupin was. The message of the song is what matters most:

a change is gonna do me good

Perhaps I won’t leave London after all, and a new flat will be a sufficient change of scenery. I’m okay with not knowing just yet… which is uncharacteristically patient of me. How grown up, innit.

Stay tuned for updates.

Dear CD,

Surprise! I suppose I could have waited a few weeks to keep you in suspense but that’s not my style. As you know, one of my goals for 2020 is to write and send 20 letters. This is letter #15. All of my letters thus far have been inspired by music. Since I know how much music is an intrinsic part of your life, I thought it would be fun to use prose and poetry as a jumping-off point instead. One of my all-time favourite writers is Charles Bukowski, and ever since I discovered him as a teenager, I’ve turned to his words for comfort. He was a major literary figure in 1960-70s American counterculture, so you may know his stuff already; forgive me if any of this is old news. This summer, I read three of his novels, and one section, in particular, stood out to me:

“I liked to watch the fights. Somehow it reminded me of writing. You needed the same thing, talent, guts and condition. Only the condition was mental, spiritual. You were never a writer. You had to become a writer each time you sat down to the machine. It wasn’t that hard once you sat down in front of the machine. What was hard sometimes was finding that chair and sitting in it. Sometimes you couldn’t sit in it. Like everybody else in the world, for you, things got in the way: small troubles, big troubles, continuous slammings and bangings. You had to be in condition to endure what was trying to kill you.”

- Charles Bukowski, Hollywood

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The hallmarks of Wintersleep’s sound were driving acoustic guitars, hard-hit drums, and singer Paul Murphy’s mumble-growl. The songwriting was dynamic, the sound alternating between tenderness and aggression — like Pearl Jam without anthemic choruses or guitar virtuosity. Instantly appealing to me, a 20-year-old musician who grew up with grunge but wanted to branch out.

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Quickly, I became a loyal Wintersleep fan, attending every show they played in Vancouver. I was in a band then, so it was exciting to see them initially at the same venues I played, like the 150-capacity Media Club.

Their stature grew with a second album, 2005’s Untitled. “Jaws of Life” was played on rock radio, and the video for “Danse Macabre” was in rotation on MuchMusic, Canada’s MTV.

The best aspect of Wintersleep live was drummer Loel Campbell. My favourite show was in 2005 or ‘06, at downtown Vancouver club Richard’s on Richards, where Campbell did two wildly unpredictable, lengthy drum solos — two solos! — and blew everyone’s brains (twice!) He’s still my favourite Canadian drummer of all-time.

Wintersleep’s popularity spiked with 2007’s Welcome to the Night Sky, which contains their only hit, “Weighty Ghost” — undeniably catchy, but one of their weakest songs, I’d argue. This tune was omnipresent in Canada in the late 2000s.

Seeing Wintersleep in small venues, I was awed by the contrast between Murphy’s timid vocal delivery and Campbell’s thundering drums. Seeing them after the success of “Weighty Ghost” at the 1,000-capacity Commodore Ballroom wasn’t as thrilling. The unique elements of their sound, especially Murphy’s voice, got lost in larger rooms.

Welcome to the Night Sky exploded in Canada, and it’s a great record, so the band must have felt tremendous pressure to follow it up. Perhaps this is the reason they took a left turn and released a less catchy and more progressive album, New Inheritors, in 2010. To my ears, Murphy sang with an American accent on some of the tracks, which was bizarre. “Weighty Ghost” positioned the band on the cusp of mainstream success and New Inheritors didn’t deliver on that potential. The album disappointed fans and the Canadian music industry alike.

I’ve never not wanted a band or artist I love to succeed. I hope the musicians I admire earn a living and reach as many people as possible. As an act gains more fans, there needs to be a progression, an elevation in their sound and showmanship that attracts a new and bigger audience. In other words, a band needs to up their game when playing big venues and festivals.

I probably saw Wintersleep 7 or 8 times between 2003 and 2011; mostly in Vancouver, also in Berlin in 2010. By the late 2000s, my friends and I had arrived at the same conclusion: Wintersleep wasn’t progressing. Their sound became conventional, even as mainstream success eluded them, and their live shows were consistently lacklustre.

In concert, Wintersleep presented like an unconfident, inexperienced indie band, even 5+ years into touring (with the exception of drummer Campbell, who was always captivating). Their musicality improved, and they had an abundance of amazing songs, but their live show didn’t improve. I’m mainly referring to Murphy’s inconsistent vocals and lack of confidence on-stage. I know that’s unfair, but he is the frontman. No one’s expecting an indie rock singer from Halifax, Nova Scotia to sing operatically and own the stage like Freddie Mercury — but there are dozens of examples of rock singers who drastically improved their singing and stage presence over time to reach and sustain a large following.

Simply put, Wintersleep never stepped it up. As a loyal fan from the start of their career, this made (and still makes) me very sad.

Last month, I was reminded of my early infatuation with the band when I found the blog of their founding bassist, Jud Haynes. Haynes played on the first three Wintersleep albums and then left to become a successful visual artist. He wrote in January about the 20th anniversary of Untitled and it’s a fascinating reflection on their early days. (I paid $150 Canadian for the “ultra limited edition, blood-filled vinyl” that he mentions at the start and end of the post. I’m collecting it next month when visiting Toronto.)

I love reading behind-the-scenes insights about my favourite artists, songs and albums. If you’re already a Wintersleep fan, the post from Haynes is well worth reading. It encouraged me to go back and listen to their first two albums, especially Untitled, and I’m still blown away by their creativity and fearlessness. The Untitled and Welcome to the Night Sky era of the band is their artistic peak, no question.

In writing this piece, I reviewed some of Murphy’s lyrics, and I realised that most of the songs on Untitled don’t contain choruses. No choruses! The aforementioned “Danse Macabre”? No chorus. The opener, and my favourite on the album, “Lipstick”? No chorus!

For musicians in their early twenties to write a rock album with unconventional song structures is ambitious. Clearly, Wintersleep were full of confidence in the early 2000s, and that’s what my friends and I admired most about them. So what the hell happened?

Wintersleep have continued to tour and release music; a new album, Wishing Moon, is out on 27 March. Of the three songs released thus far, I quite like “You & I”, although it proves my point and lacks the boldness of their 2000s output.

I wouldn’t be so critical of Wintersleep if I didn’t love the band. Here are my 10 favourite Wintersleep songs.

I’m seeing them in April at a tiny venue in London, for old times’ sake. Maybe, hopefully, I’ll be pleasantly surprised.

JL,

I started writing this letter in Corfu after we spoke on the phone one night, whilst sitting in an empty beachfront restaurant. I was thinking about your sage advice regarding D, and I was compelled to write this letter to express gratitude for and expound upon how supportive, considerate and reliable a friend you have been to me this year. I tried to articulate it on the night of the lock-in at Discount Suit Company and it bears cementing in writing: you are amazing, JL, and my life has improved immensely by having you in it!

As you know, one of my many goals for 2020 is to write and send 20 letters. This is letter #14. Most of my letters have been inspired by song lyrics and, for yours, I recalled one of my favourite Radiohead songs and possibly one of the greatest opening stanzas in a song ever:

“If I get old, I will not give in
but if I do, remind me of this
remind me that once I was cool
once I was free, once I was me”

- Radiohead, “A Reminder”

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I started this Substack on my birthday two years ago:

Last year, I celebrated another spin ‘round the sun with a 42-track playlist of my favourite Radiohead songs:

In celebration of my upcoming birthday, I’ve created another highly indulgent playlist, this time showcasing my favourite genre of music: post-rock.

For the uninitiated, my definition of post-rock:

• predominantly instrumental music

• primarily features rock ‘n’ roll instruments

• occasional flourishes of strings, synths, vocals, beats, brass

• commonly used adjectives: epic, intense, cinematic, dynamic, otherworldly, loud

I first heard the name for this enigmatic genre in my late teens, courtesy of my cousin Dann. I recounted the memory of hearing Godspeed You! Black Emperor for the first time in a letter to Dann in 2020, reposted here last April:

One of my favourite posts I've written in the past two years, in October 2024, connected my childhood love of scary stories and films to my obsession with post-rock and similarly thrilling music:

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If you’ll indulge me for my birthday, I’ve curated a playlist of my eight favourite post-rock bands — a notable omission is my #3, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, because they’ve removed their catalogue from Spotify and YouTube.

To ease you in, I’ve posted some introductory tracks and commentary below.

Warning: this music is not for the faint of ears or heart!

Mogwai
Second only to Radiohead in my favourite band rankings. I’ve seen them live more than a dozen times, in smelly clubs and fancy concert halls and green fields. Mogwai is the band I’d most like to play guitar in. Come on lads, hurry up and ask me already!

Sigur Ros
The most beautiful music, post-rock or otherwise. I recognise that there are humans behind the instruments and yet I don’t comprehend how they can conjure such an alien sound. A consistently awe-inspiring live show. I first saw them at a tiny theatre in Detroit in September 2001 and I've been chasing that high ever since. Their performance at Royal Albert Hall, accompanied by an orchestra and a boys’ choir, was by far the best concert I saw last year.

Do Make Say Think
A jazzy, percussive take on post-rock; easier on the ears than the other bands here. I wrote about their album Winter Hymn Country Hymn Secret Hymn as one of the only winter-themed things I can tolerate, let alone celebrate.

Explosions in the Sky
Russian Circles
I’ve grouped these two American bands together because they have a similar, stripped-back sound — distorted guitars, thundering bass and drums, the occasional synth. Interweaving guitars are centre stage; so rich and melodic that I don’t miss the absence of vocals. Case in point:

In the case of EITS, as with Mogwai and Godspeed, a song with a spoken word introduction — in this case, sampled from an American war film I’ve never seen — is what initially hooked me on them.

Jambinai
Easily the most unique of my post-rock faves, this South Korean quintet features two traditional stringed instruments supported by electric guitar, bass and drums. The sound is bold, brash, punishing at points… and yet the band performed during the Closing Ceremony of the 2018 Olympics. Wild!

Sonic Youth
Swans
I deliberated — and consulted with Cousin Dann — if these bands are really post-rock. They are more commonly classed as noise-rock, having emerged in New York’s “no wave” scene of the early 1980s. Both bands were renowned for their punk attitudes, uncompromising artistic integrity, and regularly abusing their audience (Swans) or instruments (SY). Call it noise-art-punk-proto-post-rock ?

While curating this playlist and reflecting on my most beloved genre of music, I realised that the first post-rock song I fell in love with was “The Diamond Sea” by Sonic Youth. It was 1995 or ‘96, and I probably heard it on a late-night alternative music show on 89X radio or MuchMusic’s The Wedge. Sonic Youth’s symphony invited my ears with washed-out guitar effects and Thurston Moore’s forlorn vocals, then expanded to increasingly intense sections of jagged, hypnotic noise. The epic outro ain’t easy listenin’ but I was (and am still) captivated by it: 20 minutes of post-rock bliss.

On the 25th of February, have a listen to these 14 post-rock gems and think of me!

Dear P,

Greetings from Corfu, Greece! I started writing this letter on day 3 of an 8-day solo trip. With a second lockdown looming in the UK, and mandatory vacation time to take from my job, I’ve escaped the bustle and distractions of London. My days here have consisted of writing, reading, beaching, and eating. I’m staying in a tiny beachside spot with only one villa and one taverna still open, since it’s the very end of tourist season. On my first full day, I rented a quad bike and drove through the hills to explore the island. I settled on a remote beach, which was only accessible by a precarious drive through mud, gravel, rocks, and sand. When I arrived, there wasn’t a single person as far as I could see in any direction. The beach was littered with broken boats, plastic garbage, and miles of grey and brown seaweed that looked like unspooled film from an ancient camera. I spent a few hours there, laying on the sand, doing yoga, reading and writing. Periodically, I would look up and scan the beach, expecting to see someone in the distance. There was never anyone. I felt a pang of loneliness, the sharp realisation that I was, in that precise place and time, truly alone. I felt vulnerable. If suddenly something bad happened – if my quad bike stopped working, if I went swimming and was swept away by the current, or if I fell on the rocks and broke my leg, I would be stuck there, lost, or worse. It was strange and a little scary; not feelings I experience in my relatively safe and controlled life in London. Rather than give into the anxiety, my adrenaline kicked in and my confidence took over; I told myself that I would handle whatever happened. I would persevere. Suffice to say, I returned to the villa safely.

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Aside: my first big concert of any genre was Paula Abdul at The Palace of Auburn Hills, also outside of Detroit, in November 1991. I recounted that experience here:

Pine Knob is an amphitheatre with two sections: a covered pavilion with thousands of reserved seats on a rake, and the lawn, an uncovered hill miles above and away from the stage.

In my teens, I went with my cousin or sister to see Metallica, The Tragically Hip, and Depeche Mode at Pine Knob. The first time I visited unchaperoned was on August 2, 2000, to see the double bill of Live and Counting Crows. Joining me was my best friend, Jenny. We were 17. Jenny loved Live’s semi-spiritual grunge. I was obsessed by the hippy-slacker folk-rock of Counting Crows. An odd pairing of bands, in retrospect, but that didn’t occur to us then. This show was going to be our highlight of the summer.

I’m pretty sure my parents drove us to Pine Knob, went shopping in Michigan, and then picked us up at the end. Even with adult chauffeurs, it was surprising that Jenny was allowed to go to the concert, as her parents were much stricter than mine.

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Jenny and I had been best friends for three years by that point – a long time by high school standards – and we had decided to date that summer. Arriving at Pine Knob in the afternoon, we found a prime spot on the lawn in the sunshine. Jenny was incredibly articulate, always primed to banter and debate me about bands, plays, school, friends, life and the pursuit of next and more. I picture us sitting in the hot August sun, both in t-shirts, shorts, and sneakers, chatting about anything and everything. We left our houses without sunscreen and were too young to care. I can still sense how comfortable I felt with Jenny then. We loved and understood each other.

Although we were the same age, Jenny was years ahead in emotional maturity. I was an adventurous, energetic, impatient kid. I wanted independence and experiences and relationships without responsibilities. I wasn’t boyfriend material. Before the concert started, Jenny brought up our relationship, and she called me out for being a far better friend than a boyfriend. I don’t recall the details of that conversation now, but she was 100% correct, and I admitted it then. I couldn’t lie or make excuses to Jenny. She knew me so well. We agreed that our bond was stronger as friends, and that was that.

Earlier that summer, Jenny had confided in me that her parents were physically and emotionally abusive. In typical Catholic fashion, her family presented at church on Sundays as devout, happy, normal. Behind their closed front door, Jenny and her two siblings were treated with cruelty and violence. She knew it was fucked up, but she still felt a lot of shame, like she sometimes deserved the abuse. I think I was the only friend Jenny told then and I was sworn to secrecy.

The gig started and Live were amazing. Bright lights, bombastic sound, impassioned performances of 90s hits like “All Over You” and “Lakini’s Juice.” Counting Crows followed and they were less polished, more unpredictable. They opened with their biggest hit, “Mr. Jones”, and singer Adam Duritz changed the lyrics and melodies so it was difficult to sing along with him. At some point at the beginning of their set, the evening sky opened, and it proceeded to rain buckets. Jenny and I, ill equipped in our summer clothes, got pummelled. Unlike so many sensible people around us, we didn’t leave our spot on the lawn.

At the Crows’ encore, Duritz sat at the piano and played the start of “Live Forever” by Oasis before launching into “A Long December.” Here’s a clip from that same tour, three weeks after the Pine Knob show:

I’ve now seen Oasis four times, but this surprise snippet is still my favourite performance of “Live Forever.” I have always thought Noel Gallagher’s lyrics were vague and cliched, but now, remembering that night 26 years later, I marvel at how a few of his lines captured how 17-year-old Jenny and Josh felt right there and then: we were soaked to the bone, we were gonna live forever.

High school progressed and we stayed best friends. Then we went our separate ways for uni. Eventually, we both ended up in Vancouver, although on different timelines and paths. We would occasionally hang out, but it was obvious we had less and less in common. We became different people. I’m fairly certain we last saw each other on October 19, 2010, in Vancouver. I have a photo from that night:

We exchanged a few emails before I moved to the UK. In September 2024, I messaged Jenny on LinkedIn to tell her I was thinking of her and hoped she was well. She replied right away and said she was.

Jenny passed away one year ago today, 18 January 2025. I learned about it a month later, from a dear high school friend who saw a post on Facebook.

I couldn’t process Jenny’s death for most of 2025. It felt surreal and strangely inappropriate to mourn someone I hadn’t seen in 15 years. After much reflecting and writing, I am able to appreciate and honour how, in my pivotal teenage years, Jenny’s influence was massive and important. She knew me before I knew myself, before I became me.

I could tell dozens of fond stories from our time as awkward, precocious, music and theatre nerds at St. Joseph’s High School. My favourite memory is attending that Live and Counting Crows concert together at Pine Knob in August 2000. Soaking in the intensity of the music, while getting soaked by the rain, Jenny and I were unified as friends, undaunted by our circumstances, and unafraid of the future.

Jenny, in her exceptional way, was the bravest person I ever met.

Counting Crows closed the show with a tribute to those of us still on the lawn, dancing in the downpour. “Rain King” for us rain kids.

“I want too much, she thought. I want everything. I want day and night, arrows and Agincourt, sleeping and waking, world without end, amen.”
- Daphne du Maurier, A Border-Line Case

“With eternal love, the stars above
all there is and ever was
I want it all, I want it all
I want it all, I want it all

A blade of grass, a grain of sand
the moonlit sea, to hold your hand
I want it all, I want it all
I want it all, I want it all”

- Metric, “The Shade”

Darling NS,

One of my many goals for 2020 is to write and send 20 letters. This is letter #12. Each letter has a different theme or topic, often inspired by song lyrics, and this one has been stewing in my mind for a long time. I fell in love with that Metric song a couple years ago, but it wasn’t until I was on holiday in Croatia in August, reading Daphne du Maurier’s short stories, that the two passages clicked together and I started writing this letter. I chose to send it to you because I think we’re similar in many ways and I still feel a strong connection with you, despite the years and thousands of kilometres between us.

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Dear MS,

One of my many goals for 2020 is to write and send 20 letters. This is letter #11. Most of my letters have been inspired by lyrics and, for a change, I thought it’d be cool to write a songwriter about a song of theirs that I admire. I love so much of Elliott Brood’s music but Mountain Meadows will always have a prominent place in my heart since that period was when our friendship cemented. “Woodward Avenue” is one of my favourites because it conjures a unique feeling in me that few songs do: artificial nostalgia. When I hear the song, I am transported to a past, simpler time in North America. A booming city — Detroit or Windsor? — of the mid-twentieth century. The scene of men wearing white jackets and wide-brimmed hats and women in long skirts, coming together at a church hall for a sock hop. I have no interest or knowledge of this time, so it’s bizarre that it’s such a clear and specific image. It’s like I’m remembering a black-and-white film or a historical re-enactment from visiting the Henry Ford Museum as a kid, neither of which I can recall actually seeing! The last verse is the most vivid, if you’ll indulge me to quote you:

“And how we love the evening
in gaslight flooded streets
we pour into the dance halls
where the floors jump through our feet”

Music is incredible for producing so many different images, emotions and reactions. Are there lyrics that conjure artificial nostalgia in you?

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“A ritual, Collins explains, ‘is a mechanism of mutually focussed emotion and attention producing a momentarily shared reality.’”

“Rituals do more than lend structure to our days, Collins argues; they also create ‘emotional energy’ which is something we crave. We want to feel alive, valued, connected, ‘charged up.’”

“What holds society together?” Collins asks. The answer is ‘groups of people assembled in particular places who feel solidarity with each other’ – and who then find ways of sustaining that solidarity across space and time, using symbols and rituals that help them feel it even when they’re not together.”

Source: “Is ‘Six Seven’ Really Brain Rot?” By Joshua Rothman, The New Yorker, 14 November, 2025

2025 was a challenging year for me in many ways, but the most rewarding aspect was the plethora of incredible concerts I attended. Live, dynamic and collective music experiences rejuvenated me this year. The best concerts elevated me long after the PA faded out, and far beyond the club, concert hall, or park.

I particularly love it when a song or lyric, experienced live, gets imbued with a new meaning and it sticks. Sometimes a live rendition of a song amplifies my appreciation so much that I re-hear the album version with new ears. I carry the song memory with me for months and years afterwards, like a Polaroid in my wallet or the scent of a lover on an old sweater.

As I wrote about on my birthday in February, seeing Radiohead for the first time, in August 2001, still shines brightly in my memory. It was a life-changing experience that reverberates twenty-four years later. Dozens of formative concert experiences in my first two decades sent me on this lifelong mission: seeking new memories, surprises, and changes of perspective via live music.

Here are the 10 best gigs I experienced in 2025, with an accompanying playlist of one song — live versions where available — I heard at each gig.

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1. Sigur Ros at Royal Albert Hall, 1 October

One of my all-time favourite bands. I’ve seen them 10 times because their live show is consistently captivating, a magical and otherworldly sonic spectacle. I was a little disappointed by their tour in 2022, as it was virtually the same setlist and visuals as I’d seen them perform previously, so I wasn’t sure I needed to see them this year. Then it was announced that their four shows at Royal Albert Hall were with the London Contemporary Orchestra, and my FOMO grew too great to ignore. The RAH is easily the most beautiful venue in London, if not the world. Sigur Ros brought an expanded band and a 60-piece orchestra – plus, they were joined for the final three songs by the organist Andrew Forbes and the Cardinal Vaughan Memorial School boys’ choir. The ensemble were a floating island of white light, buoyed and shimmering in the vast ocean of the Albert Hall. This concert was my rescue boat in a year full of storms. The best show I’ve attended in years. I’m still afloat from it.

2. LCD Soundsystem at Brixton Academy, 20 June

LCD has been my obsession for the past five years. They’re my go-to music for an emotional uplift when alone, or an impromptu dance party with pals. During the most recent five shows of theirs I’ve attended — four at Brixton Academy, one at Victoria Park — a strange thing occurred each time: certain lyrics that James Murphy sang hit me like a sucker punch. I swore he was singing directly to me, imparting advice that I needed to hear right in that moment. (I think I’ve only ever experienced this previously with Radiohead, and their lyrics are less direct.) Lines like, “You’re afraid of what you need” (“Home”) and “I can change, if it helps you fall in love” (“I Can Change”) and, most punchy, “Everybody makes mistakes, but it seems it’s mine that always keep on stinging” (“Tribulations”). I keep returning to LCD concerts like I return to therapy. Thank you Doctor Murphy.

3. Oasis at Wembley Stadium, 30 July

I loved Oasis as a teenager and my fandom has actually increased since moving to the UK in my late twenties. When the reunion tour was announced last year, I wrote about my excitement, and my past disappointments when seeing them in 2001 and 2005.

Soundtracks to Adventure

A Tale of Two Brothers

I'm surprised at how excited I have become about the Gallagher brothers’ plans to reform next summer…

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2 years ago · 1 like · Josh McNorton

Despite my previous experiences with Oasis live, I couldn’t miss the most hyped gig of the 2020s. To my (and everyone’s) great relief, the hype was justified: Oasis live ‘25 was an incredible experience. The band far surpassed my expectations – Liam’s voice, in particular, sounded better than ever, and the setlist included enough Noel-sung songs to satisfy me. Although Oasis has never been known for their onstage displays of affection towards each other or the audience, the Gallagher brothers appeared unified and appreciative of their rabid reception. (Or maybe they were just appreciative of the billion-pound payday. Probably all of the above.) My favourite aspect of the show was how excited the crowd was – young and old, most people sporting multiple articles of Oasis merch, everyone singing along to every word. The experience is best summarised by the chorus in “Acquiesce”, the second song in their reunion tour setlist: “Because we need each other.” Indeed, we do. And Oasis needed their audience again. You’re welcome, lads.

4. Joe Armon-Jones at Hackney Church, 24 Oct

I’ve seen Joe Armon-Jones play keyboards many times in Ezra Collective, the Mercury Prize-winning bombastic jazz quartet from south London. He always appears onstage as the shy, music geek of the group; head down, his long, blonde curls bobbing over the keys. For some reason, I assumed this gig, in a church in hipster central Hackney, would be Joe at the piano, solo, improvising free jazz for an hour. Wow, was I wrong! He joyously led his highly skilled band and whipped the audience, especially me, into a jazz-reggae-dance odyssey. The most unexpected fun I’ve had all year.

5. Massive Attack with Air, Victoria Park, 6 June

I saw MA for the first time at a festival in Portugal last summer and it was, in a word, INTENSE. Deep sub bass that echoed throughout my intestines. Hypnotic, heady beats rattled my grey matter. The ~10-piece band bathed in darkness (I could barely make out, let alone count, them all). The sound was amazing, but what was most striking about the gig were the visuals on screens behind the band and the sides of the stage. A rapid onslaught of disturbing war imagery — victims, perpetuators, lies and destruction — for the entire show. It was horrific to watch; I was glad the messages were written in Portuguese. This year’s show, in my favourite park in the world, was even more intense because I could read all the text. I had to look away from the stage when it became too stark and real and depressing. I admire Massive Attack for speaking against injustices to their mass audience, and I fully agree with their political positions, but I left the show wondering if the messages overpowered the music. Not all concerts can be cathartic, I know, but this show was too dark for such dark times.

Conversely, support act Air were a light, menthol-flavoured inhale. Three middle-aged French gentlemen, dressed all in white, made a sweet, sexy sound. A much-needed Vogue cigarette before Massive Attack’s harsh hash joint of a show.

Great gig. Weird bill.

6. Morcheeba with DJ Shadow, Crystal Palace Park, 6 June

Shadow is my favourite DJ ever, but his catalogue jumps genres in quite a jarring way. His mixological dexterity is reflected in his live show; he often changes grooves and vibes within the same song. Collaborations with hip hop legends De La Soul (“Rocket Fuel”) and Run The Jewels (“Nobody Speak”) are accessible, fist-pumping anthems live, particularly at this show since Shadow was on stage before dark.

Morcheeba earned their headline slot, with an upbeat, soulful, psychedelic sound. Lead singer Skye Edwards conveyed elegance and range, best exemplified in the encore: jazz standard “Summertime” into David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance”. An easy, breezy dance party to kick off the London summertime.

7. Maribou State, Alexandra Palace, 14 February

A new favourite band, my first time seeing them live. Alexandra Palace is a huge, historic venue, but I’ve always been underwhelmed by the sound and the lack of atmosphere in such a cavernous space. This gig changed my opinion, as the band delivered an epic set — backed by guest vocalists, a choir, and orchestra — that matched the grandeur of the room. Beautiful and sublime for Valentine’s.

8. Deftones with Weezer, Crystal Palace Park, 29 June

I love Deftones, and I regularly listen back to early Weezer. What an odd double bill, though. Fortunately, both bands smashed through their dozens of hits, festival-style. My favourite aspect of this show was seeing such a wide range of Deftones fans – lots of parents with their kids, of all ages – and every one shouting along to the lyrics and riffs.

9. Jambinai + London Contemporary Orchestra, Barbican Hall, 5 October

An unexpected throughline of my favourite gigs this year was bands accompanied by orchestras and choirs (see #s 7 and 1). Jambinai is a loud, dramatic, Korean post-rock quintet, featuring two traditional string instruments alongside heavy guitar, bass and drums. Hearing an orchestral string section amplify the tension of their songs, and a choir occasionally screaming manically in Korean (I think), were the coolest, weirdest sounds of the year.

10. Caribou, The Roundhouse, 8 February

I danced like a fool and tripped out from the crazy light show, especially during “Sun”, newfound mission statement “Got to Change”, and confetti-strewn closer, “Can’t Do Without You.” Unbeknownst to me in February, this show was the positive energy boost I needed to propel me into 2025.

In conclusion, I don’t know what 2026 holds, but I will hold onto the fun, spontaneity, surprises, and catharses I experienced at live music gigs in 2025. The shared reality of being in an audience, feeling the emotional energy and solidarity, are some of my most cherished moments every year. It’s the experience I constantly crave, and I spend a ton of my time and money satiating, happily.

Here’s to more reverberations, and less tribulations, next year.

Dear NA,

Greetings from Corfu, Greece. I have been here for four days, escaping the rain and gloom of London for a week. I’ve come at the very, very end of tourist season, so I’m the sole inhabitant of a five-apartment villa on Marathias Beach, in the south-west of the island. I’ve barely interacted with anyone except the owner of the villa, who cooks me breakfast and dinner, and the waiter at the only open beach-front taverna. It’s exactly what I wanted, but I didn’t expect it to be so empty and quiet. It feels eerie. I can’t begin to understand what your time in Wales was and is. Perhaps quiet and eerie – plus lonely and emotional? – are accurate descriptors.

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned that one of my many goals for 2020 is to write and send 20 letters. This is letter #10. I’m in Greece to reset, collect my thoughts and write more. I’ve directed each letter to a different person, on a theme or topic that hopefully resonates with them. I thought to write to you this morning while walking on the beach, as I recalled one of our most recent hang outs – a late night at D’s, as commonly occurs – and the topic you brought up of substances and dependence. I wasn’t in the right mental condition to discuss it then but I’m glad you raised it, as it’s something I think about a lot.

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Late in the afternoon on 6 December 1989, a young man walked into Montreal’s Polytechnique engineering school with a semi-automatic rifle and killed 14 women, injured 14 others (including four men), then killed himself.

Marc Lépine’s page-long suicide note, written in French, made his motivations clear: “Feminists have always enraged me,” he wrote. “I have decided to send the feminists, who have always ruined my life, to their Maker.”

‘Hate is infectious’: how the 1989 mass shooting of 14 women echoes today, The Guardian, 4 Dec 2019

I was six years old on this dark day in Canadian history. I probably learned about it ten years later in high school. After that, I didn’t think about the École Polytechnique for decades until I was reminded in 2021. The Tragically Hip, Canada’s rock ‘n’ roll laureates, published a live version of a previously unreleased track, “Montreal”, in the 30th anniversary deluxe reissue of their 1991 album, Road Apples. Just over a year ago, I wrote about The Hip’s music and meeting lead singer Gord Downie:

“Montreal” contains a spoken intro from Downie, explaining the song is “about the identification process.” I assume he’s referring to the victims’ families identifying each of the 14 daughters, sisters, wives, and girlfriends. In the song’s verses, Downie sings snippets of imagined biographies of the women brutally murdered by Marc Lepine, starting with:

“She used to like lavender pantsuits
long black velvet gloves
smiles across crowded rooms
to the only boy she ever loved”

It’s chilling and sad. A poetic and strange collective eulogy. The singer turns sardonic by the end; as the band fades out, Downie mumbles, “It’s a bad day for the feminists.” Indeed.

The Guardian describes the Montreal massacre and then draws parallels to more recent acts of antifeminist hatred. The article’s conclusions are depressingly accurate: misogyny is infectious, spread more rapidly now than ever because of the internet, and male-perpetuated violence against women is still a raging epidemic.

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I was in Montreal earlier this year, and it’s a vibrant city – rightfully considered Canada’s cultural capital. I made a playlist of local artists and listened while I roamed the streets. I was compelled to include “Montreal” even though The Hip are Ontarians, not Quebecers. Mulling over the origin and power of the song led me to research the 1989 tragedy at Ecole Polytechnique, and write about it here. Upon returning to London, I drastically changed the playlist to be reflective of that subject and mood.

Montreal’s most famous songwriter and poet, Leonard Cohen, has the last word on my playlist. Whilst I vehemently reject all Abrahamic religions for their inherent misogyny — a longer topic for another day — Cohen’s invocation of the Torah in “You Want It Darker” is beautiful and intense, to say the least. (Cohen died two weeks after the release of the album.)

82-year-old Leonard Cohen had the opportunity to accept his end, even going as far as writing and recording it on an album. The 14 young women studying engineering at Ecole Polytechnique in 1989 did not have a choice.

Monuments and memorials have their place, but I would argue that The Tragically Hip’s “Montreal” revived the story of those 14 murdered women in the Canadian consciousness when the song was released in 2021. Art transcends decades and continents to keep memories and stories alive. Hopefully, art also teaches us to neither forget nor repeat the injustices of the past. Hopefully.

“It’s always summer in this Southern state
and it’s a comfortable life in a beautiful place
but something’s rattling somewhere inside
and it sounds like it’s broken
but in a place I can’t find
and it only gets louder with time”

- Benjamin Gibbard, “Something’s Rattling (Cowpoke)”

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The announcement comes over the crackling loudspeaker in the classroom, interrupting Madame Maini’s French lesson. She sighs. The entire class turns to look at me. I shrug, stand up and walk out.

On the way to Principal Murphy’s office, I scan my memory for what I did this time. I ‘accidentally’ threw a ball at Kevin’s head at recess. I pointed out Molly’s ugly sweater. Or was it something I did yesterday? I can’t guess, and the suspense is makin’ me anxious, ‘cause I like to have my stories straight. But it’s a short walk, and I’m outta time.

My conversation with Mr. Murphy goes the same way. I start by feigning ignorance, which he doesn’t buy, then I concede and apologise. Leaving his office, I have already moved on, like nothing happened. I return to class and wait until I get called to his office again.

This scene played out weekly, sometimes daily, in elementary school. I was constantly doing or saying impulsive things, and nearly always getting caught. I rarely meant to hurt or offend anyone. I wasn’t cruel. I would recognise when I made a mistake and apologise — and my crimes were relatively minor offenses — and yet I persisted.

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Last month, I wrote about decades of experiences in Toronto. At the very last minute, before pressing send, I added the phrase, “I was a brat”, to describe myself at thirteen years old. “Brat” is a weird choice, not a word I’ve previously used to describe myself, especially given its very recent redefinition in pop culture. “Brat” is not the right word.

Allow me to explain.

As a child, I possessed a combination of challenging traits: energetic, reckless, anti-authority, and ignorant of consequences. My parents have many funny-now-but-traumatising-then stories of little me wreaking havoc on their lives. Such as the time they took my sisters and I to Colasanti’s, a greenhouse and family fun centre in the countryside. Once we were parked, I ran ahead of my family and straight into the petting zoo, where I proceeded to pull the tails on all the animals. My parents heard the screams of children and parents and goats and ponies — and knew the chaos was caused by Josh.

My rebellious acts as a teenager were focused on trying new things and testing limits, often without waiting my turn or asking for advice first. I would jump before I knew how and where I’d land, literally and metaphorically (and verbally and emotionally, etc.) How I didn’t break any bones, to continue the jumping metaphor, is a shock to me now.

Becoming an adult, I matured… but I can still be annoyingly impatient, disruptively curious, and overly opinionated and outspoken. I don’t consider my keen curiosity to be an altogether negative trait, but my impatience is by far my most frustrating flaw.

The best piece of advice I have ever received, probably hundreds of times in total, from my parents and teachers and coaches and bosses, is:

“Just because you think something, even if it's true, doesn't mean you should say it.”

Look, I’m an extrovert, and I’m not shy about sharing my opinions. I’m critical of nearly everything and everyone, especially myself. I'm not mean-spirited, my intentions are usually good, but I say things before reading the room, before thinking about the impact my words might have.

A significant part of my day job is crafting creative concepts into practical proposals, and giving and receiving feedback to/from a broad range of stakeholders. I’m not sensitive about my ideas and efforts being criticised, as long as it's constructive. In fact, I thrive on getting feedback because it usually results in a stronger product/project. But not everyone can take criticism, let alone enjoy it. I know that, but I don’t always remember that. And so I persist.

A recent example: an acquaintance of mine was onstage at an arts centre in London, introducing an event that she produced. She spoke very, very fast, clearly due to nerves. As the interval approached, I figured I’d see her in the foyer, so I said to myself: Josh, just say hello, don’t comment on her speech. Sure enough, as I exited the theatre, she was waiting by the door. I said hello, we hugged, and I immediately blurted out, “Great speech. Were you nervous? Because you spoke really fast!” Based on her facial expression, my unsolicited feedback wasn’t appreciated. And rightfully so. I embarrassed both of us for no reason. Why the fuck did I do that?!

I have learned many hard lessons and lost some friends because of my verbal indiscretions. I am becoming more measured with my words with each passing year; however, I still say things I regret. 2025 has been a banner year for putting my foot in my mouth. It never has and never will taste good. Yet I persist.

When I started writing this post, I had the sublime song “Trouble” by Coldplay in my head. Its simple lyrics convey how sorry I’ve felt for so much of my life, from the consequences of opening my big mouth.

Turns out there are 9 more great tunes on the theme, so I’ve collected them here:

Dear AH,

One of the positive outcomes of this bizarre and challenging year is that I’ve spent loads of time discovering, rediscovering and recontextualising music. As you know, music’s always been an enormous passion of mine, but this year it’s also been a major therapeutic resource. In particular, I have found solace in what I call “evolution anthems” – songs which promote and celebrate self-awareness and growth. Florence and The Machine write the best ones – their two biggest hits are triumphant hymns to shaking out your demons, moving beyond dark, dog days, and embracing You v2. Fiona Apple's “Better Version of Me” has gotten me through many temporary down-trodden times, too. Another song I've listened to dozens of times, and only recently looked closely at the lyrics, reflects that sentiment:

"Now that the lake’s in place
Where the sea used to be
It seems that I'm ceasing to be
In the season of the old me
I wouldn't trade my place
I got no reason to be
Weathered and withering
Like in the season of the old me"

- Grandaddy, “Now It’s On”

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For six weeks in November and December 1996, I lived and worked in Toronto. At age thirteen, in my final year of elementary school, I was accepted into the Page Program at the Legislative Assembly of Ontario. Located in downtown Toronto, the Legislature is known as Queen’s Park. I worked there as a page, Monday to Friday, serving the elected politicians when the house was in session. The Assembly’s website describes the role historically thus: “early Pages were 10 to 14 year-old boys who carried messages, ran errands, and fetched glasses of water for Members of Provincial Parliament.” (At some point, probably in the 1960s or 70s, they included girls.) There were 20 of us in my cohort, hand-picked from across Ontario for our precociousness.

For those six weeks, I stayed with a local family, the O’Connells, whose son Kevin was my age and a fellow page. Mr. and Mrs. O’Connell had emigrated to Canada from Ireland and were devout Catholics. Both were probably factors in my parents letting me go. (Some context for that can be read here.)

One of my first impressions on the family was when I asked permission to watch a new show that was premiering on Friday night. Millennium was Chris Carter’s second TV series, after The X-Files became a mega hit (and my favourite). Mr. O’Connell and I sat down to watch Millennium — and one of the first scenes involved a man brutally killing a priest. Mr. O was deeply offended and angrily turned off the TV. Oops.

Like me, Kevin had two sisters, but that was where our similarities ended. He was the middle child and an introvert; thirteen-year-old Josh was brimming with energy and confidence, often conveyed as arrogance. I was a brat, so I don’t blame Kevin for not making much effort to befriend me. In retrospect, my presence was probably disruptive to the O’Connells’ peaceful suburban home. Oops.

Another standout memory of that time was the complex commute Kevin and I undertook from Scarborough, a Toronto suburb, to Queen’s Park. Before dawn, Mr. O’Connell would drive us to a bus stop, we’d board a crowded bus to a TTC station, then take the subway into downtown. It took over an hour, and sometimes two hours when returning during evening rush hour. Before that time, I had only taken a city bus once or twice in Windsor, and I had never seen a subway in real life. Navigating public transit in Toronto was a new and educational experience, and I was a quick learner.

For the first time in my young life, I was freed from the rule of my parents, so I was determined to make the most of it. I made fast friends in the Page Programme and we would explore the city on weekends, spending hours at the Eaton Centre mall, evenings at second-run cinemas, and devouring the many cuisines that Toronto had to offer. My exposure to non-western food and culture was quite limited in Windsor, so I embraced the city’s diversity.

Quickly, I got hooked on the 416. When my tenure as a page at Queen’s Park finished, I returned to Windsor changed: a self-proclaimed “big city boy.”

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Barenaked Ladies were the first band I ever associated with Toronto. Their debut album, 1992’s Gordon, was a staple in the car cassette deck on family road trips. I loved the quirky chaos of “Grade 9” and “Be My Yoko Ono”, and the melodious introspection on “Brian Wilson” and “What a Good Boy.” Hearing Gordon as a preteen, I didn’t understand most of what BNL were singing about, but I loved singing along with my sisters. Album opener “Hello City1” reflects the optimism and naiveté that I had on my first trips to Toronto.

The second Toronto band I became obsessed with was Our Lady Peace. It's ‘95 and I'm fully immersed in grunge, learning Nirvana and silverchair songs on guitar and making a racket with my pals in our parents’ basements and garages. Our primary medium for discovering new bands was MuchMusic, Canada’s music television station. OLP’s debut album landed on Much like a bomb. “Starseed” was the first hit, but it was their subsequent singles that really captured me. The “Naveed” video, featuring a rapturous live performance from singer Raine Maida, was one of the coolest things I had ever seen. These four guys were from Toronto, and only a decade older than me. I could be on MuchMusic and playing sweaty gigs one day, maybe.

Even before my journey to Toronto as a page boy, music was already leading me to envision a life beyond Windsor. My teenaged, melodramatic emotions were spurred by the chorus of “Naveed”: “I can't live here anymore.”

Fast forward to the early 2000s and Toronto had the one of the most exciting music scenes in North America, if not the world. I was introduced, again via MuchMusic, to a gorgeous young Torontonian; her debut single blended pop, hip hop and R&B. These weren’t my genres, I was a rock snob, but I couldn't deny that this song and her vibes were sweet.

Throughout 2002, I considered moving to Toronto for university, even visiting Ryerson, York, and the U of T on a school-shopping road trip with friends. I opted for UBC instead, far away on the west coast. Within a few months of moving to Vancouver, Toronto’s indie rock scene exploded with Broken Social Scene’s landmark album, You Forgot It In People. Bands from their Arts & Crafts record label were suddenly all over college radio, and Metric seemed to play on my campus every six months. The music press portrayed the Toronto scene as a big network of BFFs; they joined forces on stage, they recorded together, they toured in packs, they dated, etc. I was loving Vancouver and UBC, but I was very jealous that wasn't ensconced in that scene.

By late 2006, I’m playing in The Painted Birds and working in the music industry (which I wrote about here.) I would visit Toronto 2-3 times per year to attend industry conferences and play gigs, often doing both at the same event. I always had a great time in the city, making many music friends and frequenting so many great venues. Toronto hosted some of the best TPB shows of our brief career.

Aside:

The incestuous Toronto scene peaked commercially in ‘07 with Broken Social Scene member Feist’s massive hit, “1234.”

Feist is brilliant, and this hit was great for boosting Canadian music, but “1234” is probably the weakest song on The Reminder. I digress.

In retrospect, artistically, the best artist or band from that era and genre was Constantines. Originally from Guelph, Ontario, the quintet wrote about big city life with a hard driving, impassioned style. I was late to discovering their music, probably missing many appearances in Vancouver due to ignorance. I didn't see them until I was in Chicago for the 2009 Lollapalooza Festival with my dear friend Andrea. She knew the band and got us into a club show they played, opening for The Gaslight Anthem. That Constantines tour, for 2008’s Kensington Heights album, would be their last until reforming in the mid-2010s. Their songs represent to me the hustle, bustle, and gritty beauty of being a working musician in Toronto.

Since moving abroad in 2012, I've become gradually less connected to and aware of the Canadian music scene. The most exciting rock band I've heard from Toronto in the past 10-15 years is July Talk. They possess some of the scrappy energy of Broken Social Scene and Constantines, but with a dynamism that feels very modern. Their greatest strength is the contrasting, and sometimes competing, vocals from Peter Dreimanis and Leah Fay. Just like with Our Lady Peace’s and Nelly Furtado’s videos — except via YouTube now, instead of MuchMusic — July Talk’s unique visual aesthetic is what first attracted me.

Despite all my positive history with the city — and my recent visit in July was great — Toronto has never been somewhere I’ve wanted to live. Spending six weeks there as a thirteen-year-old set me on a path to gradually seek out bigger cities to call home. When I was ready to leave Vancouver in 2011, I considered Toronto, but it felt like a half step up, not a great leap forward. T.O. didn’t (and still doesn’t) feel exciting or progressive enough for me. To be more specific, Toronto has all the downsides of a big city anywhere — pollution, traffic, crime, high cost of living — and none of the upsides that London has — mild winters, tremendous opportunities in the cultural sector, and an efficient, comprehensive public transportation system. Toronto does have one huge advantage to every other city in the world: I know a lot of incredible people there, and the music scene still punches above its weight internationally.

I've put together a playlist of 22 artists from and/or based in Toronto. I was initially quite strict about the geography — I omitted two of Canada’s biggest rock bands, The Tragically Hip (from Kingston) and Arkells (from Hamilton) — but that was being pedantic. Those two bands are ambassadors for Toronto, often singing about the city. (I previously wrote about The Hip here.) What matters is that these songs evoke memories and associations with Toronto for me.

Those two aforementioned bands represent the old and new guard, respectively, of mass appeal, working class Canadian rock. They have a clear lineage, which is nicely exemplified by Arkells covering The Hip’s “My Music at Work” live:

My favourite part of that video is at 2:11, when Arkells frontman Max Kerman asks the crowd, “aren’t we lucky to be from Canada?”

I don’t see Canada as home anymore, but identifying as Canadian is as important to me as being a music-lover. My journeys to Toronto over decades have instilled both of those qualities in me.

Dear C,

Long time no speak, darling! I know it is out-of-the-blue to be writing you. I'm moving out of my place in Whitechapel next week, after 5.5 years, and in the process of packing I re-discovered the letter you sent me, along with the ‘Hygge’ book, in 2016. It was so sweet of you to send that, I'm sorry it has taken so long for me to reach out again.

One of my many goals for 2020 is to write and send 20 letters. This is letter #7. Each letter has had a different topic, inspired by a song title or lyric. As I'm about to move, I've been thinking a lot about how memories are tied to a place, and how moving is such a massive, concrete marker of time. I haven't lived anywhere as long as I have here, since leaving my parents' house in Canada at age 19. A lot of significant life moments and changes have happened over the course of 5.5 years; for example, I was single when I moved in, I met N at my birthday party here in 2015 and we dated for nearly 4 years, and now I'm single again – more on that later. I know you've also moved cities and countries many times, so I'm interested in getting your insight into it. How have you adapted to new places? How have your friendships survived? What have been the unexpected challenges in moving from the UK to Germany?

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I’m seven or eight years old. It’s Saturday night, way past my bedtime. I’m sitting in the back of my parents’ minivan, as Dad drives all five of us down Highway 401 towards Windsor. Rain is chucking down and wind is jostling the sides of our vehicle. We’re not phased because a sudden summer storm is not unusual in Southwestern Ontario.

We’ve come from a family party in nearby Chatham. I’m buzzing from running around with a dozen cousins and sneaking a can of after-dinner caffeine. My face is pressed to the window, searching for something, anything interesting in the wet, dark night.

The minivan’s radio is playing soft rock. I’m jolted out of my reverie by a tantalising tale:

“It was a rainy night
When he came into sight
Standing by the road
With no umbrella, no coat
So I pulled up along side
And I offered him a ride
He accepted with a smile
So we drove for a while”

Whoa, that’s weird. It’s a rainy night and I’m inside a car, too. What’s this lady on about, then?

“I didn't ask him his name
This lonely boy in the rain
Fate, tell me it's right
Is this love at first sight?
Please don't make it wrong
Just stay for a night”

I feel a patch of sweat forming on the back of my neck. Little Josh is realising what the song’s about, without really knowing what it entails. I am embarrassed because this topic is the ultimate taboo in the McNorton household. I’ve never heard my parents say the word that starts with “s” and ends with “x.”

“All I wanna do is make love to you
Say you will, you want me too
All I wanna do is make love to you
I got loving arms to hold onto”

As the story unfolds, my face gets redder, so I stay facing the window. I don’t dare look at my sisters or my parents and react. Nobody says anything, so I can’t tell if they’re listening to the lyrics or not paying attention. I don’t wanna know! And then it gets worse:

“So we found this hotel
It was a place I knew well
We made magic that night
Oh, he did everything right
He brought the woman out of me
So many times, easily”

Gross!

The song ends and some other, less memorable and surely less salty, song comes on next. To say those five minutes were uncomfortable is the understatement of my young life. Eventually, my face returns to its natural shade. The rain dissipates. I spend the rest of the journey thinking about Heart’s “All I Wanna Do Is Make Love To You”; the song has planted a long-germinating seed in me.

In retrospect, “All I Wanna Do…” taught me the concept of a one night stand, sure, but the longer lasting lessons were about female autonomy and sexual freedom. I’d never heard that in a song before.

On that car ride in ‘90 or ‘91, my mind was opened by the power of a seductive song.

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Fast forward five years and I’m regularly attending dances at my local community centre and high school. (I also wrote about this back in May.) Grunge and nu-metal hits are interspersed with raunchy R&B and rap. I’m embarrassed by the lyrical content of the latter, but I want to fit in and I want to meet girls, so I get my ass on that dancefloor. I find a willing female and we mimic the popular dance move of the day, “freaking.” I’m not sure I can or wish to describe it here, and the video below does a decent job. Yes, it was as awkward and ridiculous then as this couple demonstrate.

The biggest hit of mid-90s teenage dances was always “Pony” by Ginuwine. I still find the groove amazing — it was made for booty shaking — and the lyrics hilarious.

In Catholic school, we were barely taught about sex, beyond basic anatomy and practising absolute abstinence, and yet we were allowed to freak on the floor of our school’s gymnasium to “Pony” and “Thong Song” while our teachers supervised. That’s wild! But I digress.

As cheesy, over-the-top, and often misogynist a lot of 90s R&B and rap music was, I can’t deny that it contributed to my sexual awakening. Much like hearing the Heart song as a kid, freaking to “Hot in Herre” as a teenager taught me about desire and dynamics between sexes. And some terrible dance moves.

A couple years ago, I bought an artwork from a London-based artist, Archie Proudfoot, emblazoned with the words “it is what it is.” I initially liked it because of the message but, upon closer inspection, there was a lot more going on.

The artwork is at the foot of my stairs, so I walk by it dozens of times each day. I have come to adore the multiple meanings. I see it as a symbol of how far I’ve come in appreciating the birds and the bees. In my twenties, I would have thought this artwork was a bit crude to hang in my home.

Sex is something little Josh was ashamed to acknowledge, and teenaged Josh was reluctant to embrace; both of those hurdles were overcome because of music.

It is what it is. No big deal.

As I did last summer, I’m taking off July and August from new posts, so I can enjoy holidays and also plan for an autumn full of writing. Enjoy this playlist of 20 super freaky jams for summer nights. See ya in September!

Dear NW,

I know this is super random to be writing you 8 years after we last corresponded. I have lived in the same place in East London for 5.5 years and I'm moving apartments next week, so in the process of packing I discovered our letters from 2012. As old-fashioned as letters are, it's amazing to have a tangible artefact which captures one’s momentary thoughts and emotions. Everyone, myself included, takes for granted our age of convenient, instant communication so it's refreshing to use an older, slower form. I'm reminded of the opening lyrics from an excellent Arcade Fire song:

"I used to write
I used to write letters
I used to sign my name
I used to sleep at night
Before the flashing lights settled deep in my brain"

- Arcade Fire, "We Used to Wait"

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