I need that song and I need it now

I’ve loved music for as long as I can remember. Often to complete obsession. There are times when I feel the need to hear a specific song so badly that if I can’t listen to it immediately several times over, I completely lose the ability to function. Like a heroin addict that can’t go on without their hit. These days, thanks to the power of the internet, instant relief is almost always on hand. But it was not always so.

From an early age I’d loved a selection of the songs that were on records that my parents used to play when they had friends coming over for dinner. They’d stack up the regular albums on to the multi-disk record player in the TV-radiogram unit and Nat and I would get to listen to a smattering of songs before it was time for us to head off to bed. The soundtracks to Hair, Fiddler On The Roof and Paint Your Wagon. A collection of Burt Bacharach’s Greatest Hits which introduced me to Dionne Warwick’s sublime version of Walk On By. I likewise fell for songs that I would hear periodically on the radio from the back seat of the car. But I think that my addiction to music probably truly started in earnest in primary school when I first became exposed to songs to which I didn’t have any access. When the recess or lunch bell rang signifying that it was time to go back in for class, a favourite song of one of the grade six kids would play over the tannoy. The song duty was rotated daily among the kids who had records to bring in to school. This introduced me to Suzi Quatro, my first ever rock n roll crush. There was something about Can The Can that did something to me that I couldn’t quite explain. It surged through my whole body and gave me a feeling of excitement that I'd never really felt before. I guess it was partly sexual awakening as I’d just started to discover the attraction of girls (girl germs now curiously seemed something desirous to receive rather than something to run from). But it was deeper even than that. I just couldn’t get the song out of my head but had no ability to hear it other than hope that it would play again at school the next day. I’d wait all lunchtime just hoping to hear the song. Or if I knew who was doing the music selection, almost beg them to put it on. When I discovered that these songs I yearned for could be purchased on record, I was on a pocket money rate of twenty cents per week, with an occasional cash injection of a few bucks for a birthday perhaps. Eventually I was able to save up the $4.99 to buy my first album at Brashs, Explosive Hits ‘74, which contained a number of the songs that I needed at that time. Devil Gate Drive, Billy Don’t Be A Hero, Hooked On A Feeling, Evie Part 1 (I didn’t even know there were two other parts to this anthem at that stage) and various other songs that I could love and listen to as much as I wanted. I took my hard saved two dollars twenty-five to buy my first single, William Shakespeare’s Can’t Stop Myself From Loving You but somehow walked away confused, instead holding the nowhere near as good My Little Angel. The Brashs sales guy had given me the wrong record and I was a bit too inexperienced to realise that I should take it back and swap it for the correct one. I was silently devastated. I also couldn’t work out how come singles were so expensive compared to the awesome Greatest Hits albums that had so many great songs on them.

Eventually my parents bought a portable radio-cassette player/recorder to which I had access and with that my listening capabilities changed. Now I could sit by the radio for hours, cassette paused, just waiting for a specific song to be played on 3XY that I could record and then listen to at will. I remember waiting days to get Meatloaf’s Bat Out Of Hell, many years before his song butchering performance at the AFL Grand Final. It was hardly immediate, but between occasional record purchases when I could afford them and songs recorded off the radio, I was in business. I was in Year 11 when Get The Knack was released and I still had no money. I wanted to hear My Sharona so badly that I nicked the album from Myers at Doncaster. Just walked out nonchalantly with it under my jumper and then raced home on the bus to play it over and over again.

As well as those songs that I today consider a bit daggy, but still have a nostalgic love for, I became introduced to music that set me on a different path. One day when I was around 12 or so, mum and dad took us to spend the day with their friends the Haugs. I guess Chris was two or three years older than me, and after a few games of cricket out the front, we left the younger kids, my sister Nat and his younger brother Ian, and went into his room where he played me music that I’d never heard before. I was probably flattered that this older kid was happy to hang out with me and introduce me to stuff that he liked. Simon and Garfunkle’s Sound Of Silence and Scarborough Fair came wafting out of his stereo and immediately had me in their spell. Followed by Neil Young songs such as Old Man and Sugar Mountain, the latter that I just couldn’t get out of my head. Neil’s discordant but oddly infectious voice coupled with the strangest chord progression I’d ever heard. This was something new. Something seemingly of greater substance than songs to which I’d previously been exposed. I only ever met Chris a couple of times, but it’s fair to say that he had a profound impact on my life, one that I’m grateful for to this day. Life is funny and years later on when I again met his younger brother Ian, who magically enough had become a member of The Church (a later love), I related to him this story of my time decades earlier with his older brother. He identified completely, saying that Chris was also responsible for his love of Neil Young, to the extent that his band ended up being named from the Neil Young song Powderfinger.

And over the years, my urgent need to hear a specific song at a particular time has not waned. Often inspired by being at a gig where a song has leapt out and taken on a new life, demanding that I listen to it a thousand times on getting home (The Police’s Invisible Sun, Dire Straits’ Portobello Belle, Springsteen’s Badlands, Sinead O’Connor’s Red Football, The Cure’s M, Billy Bragg’s Accident Waiting To Happen, Massive Attack’s Safe From Harm, Died Pretty’s Final Twist, The Church’s Block, Psychedelic Furs’ The Ghost In You, Brian Eno & David Byrne’s Home, Nick Cave’s I Need You and in a recent blast back to the past, Paul McCartney’s I Feel Like Letting Go, among many many others). And now with the internet and YouTube, Spotify and all, songs are all readily available at will whenever you need them, Or at least so I thought.

About a dozen or so years ago, I had a compilation CD that I’d received free with a magazine and for a while I had it on permanent rotation in my car. I loved one song in particular, though having misplaced the cover, I didn’t know what it was called or even who sang it really. Laura somebody or other. But for a while there I listened to this song over and over again. Repeat playing it as soon as it had finished. Eventually the CD disappeared somewhere and with it this song that I really loved. I mourned its loss on several occasions. It was a song that I yearned to hear again periodically, but I didn’t even really know where to look to find it. That is, until recently. I have an upcoming trip to New York in a few weeks and I was having a look to see if there will be any gigs on whilst I’m there that I’d like to go to. The only one that leapt out at me was a performer named Laura Veirs. Was that her? It seemed to ring a bell. I trawled through the web looking at the names of all the songs on her albums to see if something twigged. But it didn’t. So I started playing the free 15 second samples from each of her albums of around that vintage. It sounded like her, so I felt like I was on the right track, in locating the track that I desired. And then… there it was. The beautifully sparse arrangement of finger-picked guitar and melancholy tune that somehow resonated so deeply with my soul. Song My Friends Taught Me, by Laura Veirs. I’m not one for Spotify really. It rips off musicians. Likewise, just listening to the song on YouTube. I immediately needed to own it again. I went to iTunes and on finding the album there I excitedly clicked “buy” only to see a message indicating that the album wasn’t available for sale in Australia. What??? I went to US iTunes, where it was available, but received a message saying that I had to purchase via the Australian store. I tried the Aussie store again only to once more see the message of unavailability. How about Google Play? Not available there at all. So I went to the source; Laura Veirs’ website. The album was listed in her online store as being available on vinyl, CD and electronic download. Excellent. I wanted to hear it now so thought I’d just do the MP3 version. I clicked on the purchase link after selecting the download version, but when I went to the checkout page, it had turned into the physical CD. That would take ages to ship to Australia and I need it NOWWWW!!!! For some reason, despite my several attempts, it wouldn't let me select the digital download. The vinyl copy was listed as coming with an instant download code, so I decided to buy that. But on purchasing the record, no link appeared as promised. So I emailed the record company, which is essentially Laura’s, containing pretty much only her releases. Is there a download link to be had as stated on the website or is it actually referring to a card inside the album that contains a download link? I feared the latter. In my email I explained that I needed the link now as I wouldn’t be receiving the record for some months when I could pick it up from my cousin Laurie in California, where I was having it delivered. My desperation was palpable. And a few days later when I finally received an email back, I saw that my request had been granted and a download link provided. Hooray! I excitedly downloaded the album, unzipped it and pressed play on the song that I’d been hanging out to hear. And there it was. I sat back with my eyes closed, blissfully drinking it in. At least, I was doing that until the sound cut out about half way through the song. No way!! I opened the file with a different media player and had the same result. I downloaded the album again and unzipped it. Still the same. And so, disappointedly, I sent another email to Laura’s record company, explaining my whole history with this song, and wondering aloud in print whether I was somehow cursed to not be able to obtain it no matter how hard I tried. Another couple of days passed. And then, finally, a return email with another download link and a thank you for bringing to their (her?) attention that the album wasn’t available on iTunes in Australia. That was news to them and they were sorting that out. I tried the new link they sent and opened the song with trepidation. What else could go wrong? Thankfully... nothing. I played it over and over a number of times, finally feeling sated. My withdrawal had been long, but now was just sweet relief. To show their appreciation, I was also offered a download of anything that I wanted from Laura’s catalogue of albums. I chose two of them, not wanting to be too greedy. So I guess it now seems like destiny that I should go and see Laura play live in New York whilst I’m there. Though the way things have been going, I won't be holding my breath on her playing that song.