The soundtrack of our lives

IN A strange serendipitous but nevertheless happy occurrence, almost all the albums that I listened to at the tail-end of the eighties suddenly turned up available on vinyl and can be bought through my trusty online record seller.

It was as if someone somewhere else in the world, more than three decades ago; a person was scrimping on his or her meager high school allowance just as I was. But instead of the cheaper cassette tapes that I collected, that person bought the same albums on vinyl.

Three decades later, it is either he had lost interest in them or prefer the digital format that he discards the discs wholesale and now his collection has been picked through for a growing vinyl market, and later on, find their way to me halfway across the world.

My parents had a Victor stereo system in the 70s but it did not survive martial law. I had to make do with cassette tapes but I understand that vinyl and the intricate technological contraptions that played them called turntables had a longer lifespan in the first world until, of course, the compact disc became all the rage. And I am glad that people still bought records in the period 1988-1990, because I think the artists and the music they produced represented the zeigeist or spirit of our times.

The collection of albums by artists I recently acquired are as varied as the musical genres that predated the alternative music boom of the 90s.

There is the postpunk doom and gloom of the The Cure and The Smiths, the dark technological electronica of Depeche Mode and Propaganda, and the political anthem rock of U2 and Midnight Oil among others.

Beyond these artists that were all the rage in the new wave genre, there were also a few who were somewhat off-kilter but were equally relevant like American folk artist Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians and the Matt Johnson-fronted The The.

Listening to them again as an adult on vinyl on a decent audio setup that has been the product of decades of savings and acquisition has been an immensely enjoyable experience. I liked the albums and the songs when I listened to them in my tiny-sounding Sony Walkman in high school but they sound a whole lot different, they sound big, on vinyl playing on old amplifiers with big vintage woofers and tweeters. Yes, they even sound better than the CDs that compress the audio data to fit in a standard optical disc.

The needle reading the groove has the effect of listening to the music live as the sound is reproduced and picked up by the cartridge. It is almost like having a live performance reproduced when one spins a record actually which sums up the analog experience. The imperfections of this process adds to the illusion of aural headroom and space between instruments, the sound stage they call it.

But looking at these records also as social artifacts allowed me to see their impact to a generation as well. Or it could be the other way around. These records were produced and found audiences because they encapsulated the hopes and fears of the lost generation, Generation X.

The latter is certainly the case for me and I can trace the indelible marks of their music to my morose disposition as well as political stance.

Take for instance, the output of goth and fey pioneers The Cure and The Smiths. It was a period of alienation among the young growing up in England’s Thatcher, US’ Reagan, and the Philippine’s Marcos, that the morbid and depressed music of these British band resonated across the pond onto young hearts and minds eager to form their own identities unique to that of parents. Always the loner, I have found solace and continue to seek refuge from the music that they produced to give shape to feelings that are difficult to understand. The Cure’s melancholia is the perfect balm to loneliness brought about by rainy nights and sunsets, a ritual that I still enjoy in this ripe adult age.

But what surprised me was how my politics and ideological disposition were, in hindsight, also shaped by the bands that I listened to during my teenage years. Midnight Oil’s Diesel and Dust was a key album that anticipated my radical tendencies later on in life. It was a work that was anti-imperialist and anti-capitalist in defense of Australia’s aborigine’s in a format that was popular and easy to understand. And they rocked as well, very much like U2’s introduction to the Irish troubles for me and other social issues that Bono preached about.

The The’s Mind Bomb was literally just that for a young 12-year-old me as Matt Johnson attacked organized religion. He would be joined by the musings of XTC genius Andy Partridge’s in his own letter to god in his notorious song that looking back, messed up whatever chance I had of becoming a priest.

Hearing these artists and albums again in their full analog glory is like taking a trip back in time to the old you of one’s youth. But this time, there is none of the awkwardness and uncertainty of the teenage years.

Just a secret grin of satisfaction from the quality of the music but also of the journey that has been taken so far and the approaching horizon of life’s closing chapters looking for their own soundtrack.