(And... Here we go with a pre-cursor to a Sunday lunchtime hammering by the Smilers, but it was fun while it lasted. Not saying anything against SWP BTW, but I seriously thought that Daddy Dick deserved man of the match tonight)
As I have suddenly got to prepare for an 'interview' tomorrow, and as the 'interview' is for an as yet (to me anyway) undefined job, meaning that I will have to ditch the usual Friday clobber and dress UP even MORE than usual, inviting the inevitable questions about why I'm wearing a tie on a Friday, or else stuffing a change of clothes into my bag and lugging it across town, and will have to try and prepare for... Christ knows what, I thought it was high time for a musical post. The days of new albums seem so far distant, yet brought to life by the jogging of scents, that I marvel at how far we have travelled, and at how I would now no more consider buying a CD than I would a fine pony.
Like many other things in this crazy world, my relationship with music has changed beyond all recognition. Time was (and what a time it was) that TOTP was the pivot of the week. Not anymore. This change in perception is not solely down to ageing, as the total absence of the show from the TV schedules, and - more tellingly - the recent impasse between the mighty Google and the PRS, clearly demonstrates. Is there a music chart these days (that was a rhetorical question, by the way) and who is at Number 1 (that was a genuine question...)?
I have, like millions before me, trodden the path of:
the sudden realisation that music can be digitized, sent across the intarwebs and downloaded buckshee on to one's home computer (though via a dial-up connection, it was a labour of love, I'm sure you'll agree) through the ownership of an MP3 player, to Bluetoothing tracks between mobiles, to an iPod, through the Hype Machine and onward into the nirvana of Limewire on a broadband connection (though this relationship has turned sour with the release of the latest version and its incompatibility with the faithful old Mac Mini, with its Power PC chip, on whose wheezing torso I am beating out the tattoo of the very letters which appear before you) On to nuTsie, on which I have blogged before. It was irritating in its own special way - based on online versions of the tracks in your library, and often bowdlerised versions at that, but it was a great goodness to grok for a time. I haven't bothered with it since I don't know when.
Then came BlipFM via Twitter, with which I have been - largely - enamoured despite its occasional foibles on search. I like the 'props' idea and enjoy discovering tracks that I would not otherwise have heard about.
The final note in the scale has been Spotify. Ah, it is a beautiful thing, rich in its musical and visual tapestry. But, and you know what I mean, I was desperately seeking God. By Mr Lennon. And it was nowhere to be found. My curiosity pricked, I reached my tendrils towards Julia, and she was not there either, only her plain sister with a vile karaoke dress on.
So there we have it. Up to date as far as that goes. In an echo of modern working practices, I am happy to be rootless, head in the clouds, accessing the treasure trove of whatever takes my fancy. Until the cloud breaks and I don't have any music any more.