Oh I need a letter, ooh I need a letter
Oh I need a letter but not that kind
I don’t need a letter to help me remember
What is not, what was never mine
Ooh I need a letter, oh I need a letter
Oh I need a letter but not that kind
Love letter is delightfully anachronistic. Who writes letters anymore?
I do send cards. I sent one recently and the recipient’s first words to me the next time he saw me were, “You have really nice handwriting.” It was the best compliment I’ve received all month. Literally nobody has complimented me on my handwriting before.
Jonah Matranga’s song from the early 2000s started playing in my head, but only the melody and the word “letter”. I knew in which universe it came from, but I couldn’t remember Jonah or onelinedrawing. But I remembered who introduced me to Jonah’s work: Keith Michaud. He used to cover a couple of Jonah’s songs back in the day. But I couldn’t remember that band or those songs either. I scrolled my streaming service of the moment, I scrolled my Bandcamp collection and wishlist.
Finally I flipped through my guitar songbook. There it was: Lukewarm. The song I took to covering because of Keith’s inspiring renditions inside humid Palm Beach bars.
Keith also covered #1 Defender. That one got the punters singing along.
But neither of those were the letter song. Anyway, I had enough of a lead to find the onelinedrawing records on Bandcamp, and Yr Letter.
Scrolling through the aforementioned libraries and wishlists, it is truly an embarrassment of riches. I had to hold myself from playing a record and thus distracting myself from my rabbit hunt. Every record I wanted to reach for, that desire did not originate from anything the algorithm could know or predict.
Negativland, who I went to see give a talk at the University of Arizona and was immediately enthralled by. The Lost Dogs and The Throes channeling Uncle Tupelo and R.E.M. respectively for my heady christian alternative college years in the mid-1900s. Michael Knott, one of the greats, who my fellow christian outcasts in South Florida introduced me to (we watched him pour clam chowder over his head in Palm Beach and then went drinking with him, stars in our eyes). Mice Parade and Jaga Jazzist, who showed me electronic music could be more than the cage-rattling four on the floor from the discotheques in Eastern Europe. Miranda July’s audio work, discovered either before or right after falling in love via Me and You and Everyone We Know. All the Dallas bands: The New Year, friend’s side projects, Paul Slavens, far too many more to list here. Crazy good drummers making all kinds of things.
I have to stop that list at some point. I think you can go look for yourself.
Before platforms, music wove its stories into yours. Before algorithms, we were all co-creators. Yeah, I’m nostalgic. Yeah, I have no idea WTF is on the radio.
This is a love letter to sticky bars, record bins, internet rabbit holes, folks who remember what it meant to not sell out, figuring out what show to go to by talking to friends, singing along, hi-fis.
I don’t technically have a house in the ‘burbs or a bitchin’ SUV, but I’m undeniably lukewarm these days. This is a love letter to fervor.