If you listen to the same music everyday, no matter how masterful or lyrical, it will loose what made it special in the first place: its ability to stir up emotions. That being said, when you return to a great album after the passing of time, it can still knock you right off your feet like your first kiss.
I do, what many would consider, an epic daily commute. It starts with 8 or so stops on the chronically saturated pink line. Metro changes in this city are a bit of a gamble. Sometimes you take an unmarked staircase and magically find yourself on the correct platform, but changes are not always fast and this change, in particular, is no exception. Most days "power-walking," an activity more commonly seen in work place sport day events, if not proper running is warranted from the pits of the pink line to one situated above-ground. And not just anywhere - this metro straddles a 6 lane highway and has a distinctly roller-coaster appeal to its design. I am convinced that transport engineers purposively placed this in the highway median to make me feel better about any grievances I may have that day with the public transport (no seat, too much heat, screeching to halt at non-stops, peddling of loud music...) rather than sitting through the traffic. Fair enough. This process takes 30 minute.
I arrive to the outskirts of the city. There are no longer art-deco or neo-colonial buildings lining the street, better said highway, but, instead, austere concrete sometimes painted bright colors. I walk by a teenager selling deep fried tamales in front of a bus stop where a slightly disfigured man encourages me to "pasale" onto his bus. Before I traverse the highway, which will make even an staunch atheist want to be a believer, I take a moment to marvel at the world's worst playground, not lacking swings or slides or monkey-bars but situated on a highway's corner without fencing. No wonder it is always empty. A work bus that blares the latest pop music about bre bre bre breaking your heart is already waiting to take me the rest of the way to Texcoco.
This averages out to about an hour and half, meaning I spend a whopping 3 hours a day and 15 hours a week commuting to and from work. Don't worry, though. It is so worth it. But how is this relevant to music? I would hope the reader could guess.
This morning, I was traveling the first leg of the journey alone, an unusual occurrence as my roommate works for the same organization. Usually our mornings are filled with street juice (I am trying to branch out into carrot juice even though it tastes of dirt) and surprisingly interesting, considering the unholy hour, chats and occasional debates. This morning, however, traveling solo I curled my headphones into my ears and took a seat facing a window though the journey would be, at least for the first metro, entirely underground.
I opted for Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, a classic album that I had not indulged in for quite sometime. The opening track, I am trying to break your heart, builds from semi-distortion to staccato drums and bells, which gather neatly in the background to await Jeff Tweedy's half-singing of haiku-like lyrics. I sat in the heat of the metro listening under florescent lights. In the corner of my eye I saw commuters in polyester suits and ties or cheap knockoffs of the latest fashions fight off the hounds of sleep, but I focused on the entrails of the metro tunnel racing by. The blurred blacks, browns and grays passed so quickly as I let myself sink.
Disposable dixie cup drinking. I assassin down the avenue. I'm running out in the big city blinking. What was I thinking when I let go of you?
I have never felt more at peace.
Listen:
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