Love songs

The other day, Macy arrived home after a tour of Lichfield's charity shops. She was excited to show me the second-hand Mercury Rev CD she'd bought herself from Oxfam. She said something like: "this is the one we bought you on vinyl!"

I laughed. Despite Macy being a much more talented musician than I ever was, we have converging tastes - her often uncovering obscure bands that I've loved without ever mentioning them to her.

But this was taking it to the next level as the CD (pictured below) she waved was the exact copy of Mercury Rev's Deserter's Songs that I'd donated to Oxfam a few days earlier (after getting the vinyl upgrade from the kids for Christmas). Talk about a circular economy!

It's strange how this CD has grown in resonance since its first appearance 26 years ago when I interviewed Mercury Rev for my debut music mag cover feature - its opening track 'Holes' being an unlikely but inspired backing track choice for Cancer Research's recent TV ads. Macy hadn't, in fact, heard it before but picked it up because she knew I liked it.

Why am I telling you this? I'm not sure really - other than to (again) put on record, to remind myself maybe, of the intravenous role that music plays in sustaining the weird, and sometimes wonder-filled, journey we've been on over the past two years.

One of the first things I did after my diagnosis was to create a playlist to buffer me through the nights, and days, of shock caused by the prospect of the final third of my life disappearing off a cliff. This playlist continues to swell and is currently 45 hours - 646 tracks - long.

I also don't think it's a coincidence that my record collection has put on a lot of weight since my diagnosis - not helped by Lisa turning a (mercifully) blind eye, and my weekly 'vinyl enthusiast' volunteer stints at Oxfam.

Music grounds, guides and transcends. As I type this I'm listening to an album given to me by my sister Ruth and brother-in-law Brookln of their Dutch songwriter friend Kim Janssen who, years ago, came to a birthday BBQ at our house when he was staying with them. This affiliation - however fleeting - roots and localises the melodies floating around me.

After I found out on Wednesday that the suspicious spot on my liver is probably cancer, my unmoored feelings were mirrored and met in the new Nels Cline LP. Its jagged and frantic jazz fluidity somehow enfolded and transported my deflated emotions as I drifted off to sleep.

Then there's the transcendence of the concerts we've been to since the cancer struck. An early sore-footed (thanks to the chemo) foray with Lisa to see Wilco at the 2023 Moseley Folk Festival, a similar trip with Dan to catch The Charlatans, busy nights in Birmingham watching The Smile, Friendly Fires, WH Lung and Kevin Morby with friends and family. Or old acquaintances I've not seen for a while, Esther and Kirk, offering Macy and myself free tickets to watch Iron & Wine with them. All of these shows represent meaningful human connections with the people we sit or stand next to.

Spending a few days on tour with Brookln last autumn as he played to crowds up north had significance beyond the hundreds of miles we covered. Recent animated phone calls and WhatsApp videos with my brother Jon about collecting second-hand hi-fi equipment; driving home from Dan's graduation listening together to the latest Sam Fender songs - it's more than just sounds, more than just music. It's some sort of love language, often disguised as background noise.

Maybe that's why I feel less stress about splashing out on expensive shows nowadays. Seeing Bob Dylan shuffle on stage at Wolverhampton Civic Hall a few months ago, sat by my Dad, was worth the steep entrance fee alone. And we've just booked tickets - at Macy's initiation - for Stevie Wonder in the summer. One positive of life-threatening illness is becoming gradually more relaxed about money - a welcome side affect of cancer and not something I expected when I had to give up work.

Sitting pretty: My Morning Jacket. Photo credit: Silvia Grav

While processing this week's liver news, after an early morning walk in the sun at Chasewater, it was therapeutic to spend much of yesterday penning a review of the new album by My Morning Jacket. Writing that - and this post - defragments, and helps order, my scattered mind and emotions. Whereas some people, including Lisa, find it more natural to process things verbally; writing works for me.

It also passes the time, with hours disappearing in a flash when I'm at the keyboard. This helps with my newfound Lenten practice of waiting, including currently anticipating a phone call from Nottingham hospital to book a PET scan there. This scan will give a better picture of the liver spot - and my other cancer sites - with a view to SABR radiotherapy on my liver and adrenal gland, hopefully in the next few weeks.

And now, with a foggy head-cold descending, I'm signing off while listening to the aptly titled Limits Of Language by Field Music.