Crossing that fine line to discover unexpected release, happiness, and humanity.

One of my happy places during the pandemic.

I probably don't listen to music like you do. I mean, I do, but I don't.* Anyway, one of the benefits of digging through and listening to hundreds upon hundreds of new albums each year is coming across something like Nation Of Language's "Across That Fine Line." When you listen to that much music, most of it starts to fade into a singular tone, well executed and worthy of respect, if not always transformative or mind-blowing. And then, every once in a while, a simple song cuts through it all with an electrical charge that knocks you backward and fills you with hope, and life.

The honest yearning every time the guitars kick in and the vocals struggle upward in their minor key—that combination just sounds so ... alive. Like the kind of alive you remember and relate to and exudes a steady current. The crisp moment that sticks with you. It's a slice through the fabric of normalcy to reveal the magic that lies underneath our world. It's always there, but sometimes we need help to see it.

*I've never quite figured out if it's my ability to forget that fact, or my ability to live inside it that's helped define my voice over the years. Sorry, I didn't expect to think that right here, but I also didn't plan on writing the line that triggered this avalanche of thoughts either. Though, really, this footnote is less an avalanche and more a solo tumble down the hillside, so you probably don't care either way.