But Nothing Is, No.

Blur - Blur

Virgin, 1997

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Holy hell. You're off to some wine tasting and somehow some album works itself into your car's stereo and suddenly nothing makes sense and there's some asshole driving a giant pickup with milk crates full of God knows what in the back all bungee corded to the bed of his truck who's turning slowly onto the Interstate onramp and going fifteen miles an hour all the way up to the damn interstate itself right infront of you and you can't get around him because there's a semi in the other lane and the music coming out of the speakers sort of mirrors whatever this all is.

Confusion, right? Like, this is a pull away from Britpop and a pull towards something else entirely. It's beats without regard for the melody that just happens to be going on at the same time, sort of like Beck, only noisy in a different way. It's in your face, at the forefront of your thoughts, and then it's somewhere off in the distant background, adding subtle hints to your stream of conscious that your brain would really do good in a different place entirely; peaceful yet full of panic.

And on the way home, you're only sure you're going the right way because you've taken this road so damn many times before that it only makes sense. Like you're itching some part of your dry skin without realizing it because you've done it so many times before. And as you get out of the car, you snicker that you left the music up so loud at such a strange moment in the recording. Heheheheh. Have a good time with that in the morning, tomorrow Greg.