#2: SAINT MOTEL
"My Type"
from the E.P. My Type
Released: January 2014
Music
doesn't matter. All that matters is music. Music is trivial. Music is
vital. Music is stupid. Nothing is more intelligent than music. Music is
inessential. Life without music is impossible. Music is nothing.
Everything is music.
Since this joyous paean to everybody - "You-you-you're just my TYPE!/Oh, you got a pulse and you are breath-ING" - is ideal playout music, it serves as a fitting depository for credits and acknowledgements. The title of the book was inspired by one Jonathan Gibbs on Twitter. The book itself was inspired by my Your Top Songs 2022 Spotify playlist which I have recounted in reverse order and which seemed to me to represent one hundred different highways, all leading towards (never away from) my heart. The order of the book's narrative was entirely dictated by the order in which these songs appeared, but I have missed nothing out that I didn't wish to miss out.
I was a misdiagnosed child prodigy who was successively placed in environments which proved to be profoundly unhealthy for me. I have to date cheated death four times. I am regarded by some people - some of whom are, or were, very famous indeed - as the world's greatest living music writer, but the world as such does not know about me since I commit the unfortunate terminal sin of writing me, rather than writing what I scientifically imagine people might like, which is how everybody else does it.
What might initially appear as a chaotic grab-bag of random, indigestible scribbles about music and my life is in fact informed and underscored by an extremely well-developed intellectual mindset. That having been said, some of these chapters were rewrites of previous posts which I made on several blogs that I have run in the past (and, in one instance, am still co-running, although that blog is currently dormant). However, since nobody has read any of those blogs, it is not, I think, unreasonable to reintroduce this writing to a hopefully broader readership.
The idea for this book was mine alone. It was initially, if gently, pushed along by the pre-existing example of Bob Dylan's Philosophy Of Modern Song but quickly developed its own life and purpose. One might therefore anticipate that I have nobody to thank but that would be disingenuous, would it not?
Whom to thank? In my life? Hundreds, probably thousands of people into whom I have bumped in the course of living; teachers and fellow pupils at the schools I attended, lecturers, tutors and fellow students at the universities to which I then proceeded, and countless work colleagues in the course of half a lifetime's professional service to the NHS. Not to mention the unexpected, abrupt galaxy of people with whom I came into contact on the internet, one of whom I married, but that's for later. The people who helped me out when I deserved no help at all. Those who resolutely did not turn their backs on me when bad things occurred. The section editors of various music magazines who gave me a chance to write in what now seems like a different, but still connected, life. Oh, and family, but of course.
The problem here is that I could fill another volume simply with the names of all those people. I have no idea whether many of them are still living. I remember almost all of the names but am certain that those who are still alive either won't remember me or won't want to be reminded of me. Hence a general thanks to all of you who mattered, and a firm shutting of the metaphorical door to those of you who don't (and you and I know exactly who you are).
And especial thanks to my wife, Lena Friesen, who frankly keeps me alive, in all ways necessary and delightful.
Since this joyous paean to everybody - "You-you-you're just my TYPE!/Oh, you got a pulse and you are breath-ING" - is ideal playout music, it serves as a fitting depository for credits and acknowledgements. The title of the book was inspired by one Jonathan Gibbs on Twitter. The book itself was inspired by my Your Top Songs 2022 Spotify playlist which I have recounted in reverse order and which seemed to me to represent one hundred different highways, all leading towards (never away from) my heart. The order of the book's narrative was entirely dictated by the order in which these songs appeared, but I have missed nothing out that I didn't wish to miss out.
I was a misdiagnosed child prodigy who was successively placed in environments which proved to be profoundly unhealthy for me. I have to date cheated death four times. I am regarded by some people - some of whom are, or were, very famous indeed - as the world's greatest living music writer, but the world as such does not know about me since I commit the unfortunate terminal sin of writing me, rather than writing what I scientifically imagine people might like, which is how everybody else does it.
What might initially appear as a chaotic grab-bag of random, indigestible scribbles about music and my life is in fact informed and underscored by an extremely well-developed intellectual mindset. That having been said, some of these chapters were rewrites of previous posts which I made on several blogs that I have run in the past (and, in one instance, am still co-running, although that blog is currently dormant). However, since nobody has read any of those blogs, it is not, I think, unreasonable to reintroduce this writing to a hopefully broader readership.
The idea for this book was mine alone. It was initially, if gently, pushed along by the pre-existing example of Bob Dylan's Philosophy Of Modern Song but quickly developed its own life and purpose. One might therefore anticipate that I have nobody to thank but that would be disingenuous, would it not?
Whom to thank? In my life? Hundreds, probably thousands of people into whom I have bumped in the course of living; teachers and fellow pupils at the schools I attended, lecturers, tutors and fellow students at the universities to which I then proceeded, and countless work colleagues in the course of half a lifetime's professional service to the NHS. Not to mention the unexpected, abrupt galaxy of people with whom I came into contact on the internet, one of whom I married, but that's for later. The people who helped me out when I deserved no help at all. Those who resolutely did not turn their backs on me when bad things occurred. The section editors of various music magazines who gave me a chance to write in what now seems like a different, but still connected, life. Oh, and family, but of course.
The problem here is that I could fill another volume simply with the names of all those people. I have no idea whether many of them are still living. I remember almost all of the names but am certain that those who are still alive either won't remember me or won't want to be reminded of me. Hence a general thanks to all of you who mattered, and a firm shutting of the metaphorical door to those of you who don't (and you and I know exactly who you are).
And especial thanks to my wife, Lena Friesen, who frankly keeps me alive, in all ways necessary and delightful.
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