Tag Archives: Nostalgia


“Try to remember the kind of September
When you were a tender and callow fellow.
Try to remember, and if you remember,
Then follow.”
El Gallo, The Fantastiks

I grew up without a TV, for many reasons primary school was a bitch because of this void but despite the crippling circumstances I did have something. That something wasn’t my contribution to a discerning discussion on who was cooler–Charmander or Pikachu; no, when it came to TV  I was an outcast, or in Pokemon terms an N’s Pokemon. Due to an unexpected twist of fate our street was chosen for a reality TV series, so for a good 15 mins I was a reality TV star, who didn’t own a TV. 

Instead of the ole box my parents owned a record player and I would spend hours scouring over the record covers; imagining stories for the scratchy symphonies that oozed out of the pirrouting pancake. The faces and figures that covered these record players were my gods, my high priestesses, my saints that lured me into other worlds. The other day, whilst, searching through an op-shop I happened upon a sublime dose of nostalgia-my fingers traced the cities, the sudden peaks and troughs of the purple lined title, the illustrated curves of the girl in a tangerine glow surrounded in a carnivalesque grasp by three men-one tall, her lover and two other farcical patriarchs.

It was The Fantastiks record that I had listened too, when I was a wee thing. I tried and remembered  ‘a kind of September when life was slow and oh, so mellow’ ‘a forest where the woodchucks woo … and vines entwine like lovers’ of a boy, a girl, two fathers and a wall and how these people and places were a meditation away from melancholy. Too much nostalgia is toxic stagnation but a little bit now and then is pure medicine for the soul. Here are some  record covers that take me to place behind the moon, beyond the rain to a strawberry somewhere.


Throwback Tuesday Tunes



Ah Shoegaze, although I was still a mere nymphet during the 90s and was engrossed in tween pop groups (just had a side thought, suddenly, whilst thinking about 90s pop songs, um ‘Hit me Baby, One More Time’ sounds like a pop thumbs up to domestic violence and I remember singing it coyly to boys at the school disco, hmmmm). Anyway, my babysitter was obsessed in the other 90s, the 90s I will always have faux nostalgia for you know: Harmony Korine, Smashing Pumpkins, Fiona Apple, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and My Bloody Valentine. I remember going into her room, even though I was threatened to stay out and looking at the posters of a baby swimming in a pool, of a guy wearing a handkerchief tied around his head like a bow, of a woman with a black bob and a black dress lying on a bed, with her legs crossed in the air and a cigarette in her right hand; this was a far cry from the tween coated walls of my room, suffocating in Spice Girl jetsam. I remember my babysitter playing a song; it was otherworldly, between sleep and sheet, between longing and lust and it stuck with me but overtime I forgot who sang it.

I discovered the genre of shoe gaze through dream-pop group Beach House and remembered that song I once heard in a time of being babysat, a nostalgia I couldn’t quite place, perhaps because it spoke to an inexistent space in my soul, an unrequited invitation to the universe. I finally found it today it was Machine Gun by Slowdive and I have been listening to it on repeat. It’s like reacquainting myself with a lost love, blessed by a lifetime of lost lovers. It’s funny but the band was born in the same year I was born.

Tagged , , , ,