People don’t talk about music reinstalling grief. It’s a powerful tool for sinking into past memories, connecting to prior versions of yourself, and realigning motivations in the present. Yet, there’s a sadness when those connections are no longer around. Like diving back into a swimming pool with faces of the deceased floating beneath the surface. A permanent frozen fixture in time that’ll never grow or change.
It’s been a few years since my dad passed away. I’m at that ideal stage of grief where it’s no longer a constant sucker punch to the throat, but an occasional, bittersweet presence which flies through every few months. This is the best you can hope for, I’ve been told. The moment it just becomes a scarred crack on the soul.
Nothing steps on old wounds though like your shared favourite band. We went to see The Killers (and their frontman Brandon Flowers solo) live on multiple occasions, a band I’d grown up with that became a generational crossover for us. It was triggered by ‘Human’, which felt like the band’s big winner in swinging for the dads. He subsequently loved the album ‘Day & Age’ (special mention for ‘I Can’t Stay’) and everything from there was history.
I’ve been listening relentlessly to their new album, ‘Pressure Machine’ – the second they’ve released over the course of the pandemic. I’ve settled into the fact every new release will carry a poignant heaviness, yet it’s something else when it’s unbelievably great. I’ve had to shake off my own nostalgia for ‘Pressure Machine’, which, after immeasurable thought, I think takes the crown from ‘Sam’s Town’ as the best record they’ve ever released.
I don’t think my dad would agree. ‘Sam’s Town’ wasn’t his favourite no matter how much I argued otherwise. He’s less in tune with guitars, more the pop screamers and synths. The fact I can’t have this conversation though is a kicker to the chest. He’ll never know how The Killers released two of their best albums within a year of each other. Their story carries on without him. He’ll never feel ‘In The Car Outside’ rattle his bones.
It’s a weird sadness when something you love can’t be shared with someone who cares. A line of recommendation that’s been severed, a feedback loop with only dead ends. Music ties us to people, yet it’s sobering when that connection lingers in sounds they will never hear.
StarkTreatment 