Music is something I have no talent in. That is not to say I have no interest in music. Quite the contrary; I love music. I love how it can creep into my ears and make my bones tingle, my heart beat, and my legs dance uncontrollably. Music has inspired much of my writing, from the soundtracks of James Horner, Michael Giacchino, Hans Zimmer, and Lorne Balfe but to name a few. I have written entire screenplays inspired by Counting Crows albums. One of my favourite aspects of filmmaking is working with a composer to see what they come up with, and how they interpret your visual work as sound.
Recently, I had a funny thing happen to me. When I drive in my car, I tend to put on Apple Music’s radio station. It plays a mix of songs I’ve saved, similar songs, and songs the almighty Apple algorithm assumes I might like. I usually don’t, but occasionally it does hit me with some absolute bangers like Taylor Swift’s The Fate of Ophelia and Rina Sawayama’s Frankenstein.
But one day, driving to who knows where, a song came on that I knew, yet had completely forgotten about. Tears welled up in my eyes as I sang along to lyrics that were locked away in some part of my brain. The song was Dirty Paws by Of Monsters and Men. Not only is it a beautiful song that tells its own fairytale-like story, but the reason I had such an emotional reaction to it was because it was used in the film The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. It is a charming film, one that surprised me when I went to see it. It was also one of the first films I went to see with my now wife (she disputes this of course, but it came out nine months after we started dating).
But there I was, sitting in my car, being taken on a rollercoaster ride of emotions from a silly little song I heard in a movie over a decade ago.
Yet, this post is not an ode to Of Monsters and Men, although I would urge you to listen to them.
That experience prompted a resurgence in me to seek out some other albums and artists I had not heard from for a while, or simply forgotten about.
In 2001, I was a second-year student at university. I was completely naïve, and still coming out of the hardened shell that years of bullying in high school had forced me to wear. I was still discovering my identity, as most late teens are, and part of that was through the music I listened to. I was always drawn to indie rock, usually the mournful, slow drawls or angry sounds within that genre, but not enough to stretch into heavy metal.
On a random afternoon, money burning in my pocket from my part-time job at Burger King, I found myself wandering alone in the aisles of HMV. At the end of the aisles was where they would often stock the most popular albums or newest releases. However, on this occasion, they were using one of these sections as a recommendation. This was when I laid eyes on the album cover for Under a Sun by short-lived British band Witness. The cover art was fairly simple; a man swimming in an aquamarine ocean, snapped from above. And yet, something about it called to me. It may have been the accompanying reviews, or the simplicity of the image, the serenity of it. This is what the review, from Americana UK said:
“It’s almost impossible to describe the elation you feel on completing the first listen to “Under a Sun” – it’s not just that it’s the best album of 2001 but it’s not too strong to say that it’s easily one of the best albums released in recent memory.”
For reasons that I’ve never really understood, Witness faded into obscurity as quickly as they had appeared. You can read the band’s Wikipedia entry to gain an overview of the various factors that led to the band being dropped by their record label and then splitting up. I’ve never listened to the solo material from Witness’ frontman, singer-songwriter Gerard Starkie, but I may now that I’ve rediscovered the album.
Hearing Under the Sun again made me realise how music, like any creative endeavour, can often be lightning in a bottle, requiring a perfect set of circumstances to conjure a little bit of magic and a little bit of luck to bring it to life.
The year 2001 was a year of heartbreak, of mourning, and of coming to terms with loss. Maybe that’s what drew me to this album, and maybe that’s why, as I listen to it 25 years later, I can still remember every lyric, as if they were etched in the Sanctum Sanctorum of my mind.
But my point is, regardless of what creative endeavour you are chasing, keep going. You might get stuck. You might need to fight tooth and claw to succeed. Even after you make it, you may fall out or simply drift apart from the creative team you made it with. But that thing you made, no matter how small, might change someone’s life and inspire them in years or decades to come.
Keep going.