Poor In Love — Destroyer

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0r2VXDLMHzE

I had a fleeting impression today, between trading albums. It was a tactile response to digital file handling; being able to feel by thickness how long an album was; being able to hand albums to someone, and by how gingerly or carelessly you tossed them there would be implications for how much you respected them, and how well you wanted them to care for the albums. And the albums would be tactile; you would put the ones you loved on your wall — a physical, tangible wall of a room, full of album covers — to show your changing tastes; you could literally rummage through the backs of shelves to find albums you'd forgotten. And they could be sorted and lost and traded, and you could get a sense of finished production: you'd have to put in effort to put on an album, and you'd sit down to listen to it. No more would music be background noise. It would be a form of entertainment. Listening would be enough: you could sit down and listen and maybe eat or drink something, but it would consume your attention.

I don't think CDs or records or cassette tapes were like this. I'm not looking to the past. But  I'm not happy with the way I think about and treat the music in my life, and writing about it begins to help.

In a very, very tangential way, that's what this song is about.