You don’t have to read much into what I’ve written for the Listener since December to conclude that my condition during the past three months of the pandemic has been . . . let’s say “suboptimal.” I’ve reviewed a cosmic metal epic that predicts the fall of the human species, set up an ostensible music poll that was actually about the choice between default hopelessness and forced optimism, and speculated about a 1970s recording of a carousel band organ so spectacularly decrepit that I couldn’t help comparing it to my brain.
Is that distant shrieking a human voice? OK, that’s definitely a meandering, dive-bombing lead guitar. Am I hearing something that’s on the record, or am I experiencing a kind of pareidolia of the ears, induced by oversaturation of my auditory system? Picking out any other element in the presence of these monumental riffs is like looking for your car keys on Olympus Mons.
