UofMixtape: 'January Thaw'
Imagine, for a moment, a time in your life when sleep was easy, you were content with your place in the world and news outside of your hometown was inconsequential (as far as you were concerned, anyway).
You are walking down the street in a small coastal town in any given southern state — South Carolina comes to mind. There is no sidewalk in this part of town, so you keep to the edge of the road, checking over your shoulder for cars from time to time. The air is humid and dense, and you trick yourself into believing you can actually feel it weighing down on you, keeping you grounded in a comforting sort of way.
A half-moon floats above you, but the main source of light is the yellow street lamps, one posted every block, only just frequently enough to keep ward of complete darkness (although perhaps complete darkness wouldn’t be unwelcome).
Every once in a while, the barking of a dog in the distance punctuates the otherwise placid soundscape — waves lap against the shore while crickets chirp, and with every step you grind the sand between the soles of your shoes and the pavement.
While you wander physically, your mind does the same. You recall the spring breaks of years past, and anticipate the wonder of the coming summer. At once at peace and war with the nostalgia that threatens to swallow you whole and shit you out on the shores of Folly Beach, there to wallow in your solipsistic melancholy until the tide ruins even that last perverted indulgence.
With these songs, I wish only to capture the sheer humidity — this is the only appropriate word — of this imagined moment. I will admit that this collection feels out of season, but when on a Saturday in January, Michigan hits 55 degrees, it’s almost as though I had no choice.