I believe in a thing called Love

This is just my 2 cents worth on the terrible tragedy that occurred in Marikana last week.

Do I have an opinion on whose fault it was? Yes. Do I harbour feelings of anger and disgust? Yes. 

Will it make any difference whatsoever to the lives of those affected by the violence if I started pointing my finger and ranting at those that I think are responsible? I doubt it.

Instead I choose to turn to some simple, but eternal truths, like

"All you need is love." - The Beatles

"Love changes everything." - Andrew Lloyd Webber

And my personal favourite

"Love is a higher law." - U2

So what do love songs have to do with this awful, awful thing that happened last week? 

Well.

If love were involved, Lonmin would pay their employees fair wages. 

If love were involved, the protesters wouldn't have raised weapons against the terrified cops who were sent to keep the peace.

If love were involved, the cops wouldn't have needed to fire a single bullet.

It goes even further. If love were involved, people wouldn't condemn other people to hell for believing differently or for being homosexual. Politicians would actually care about the victims of South Africa's poor education system and stop squandering taxpayers' money on lavish parties and fancy cars. Men AND women would stop treating women as second class citizens. People would drive more responsibly, out of appreciation for the lives of others. Beggars wouldn't go hungry because the hundreds of people who pass by them every day would reach out to them. Despite being non-profit, charities would be coining it due to a never-ending stream of donations. Even the scathing remarks in online comment sections might stop. 

If we had more love, we would listen to each other more and there would be less ignorance, more understanding and more tolerance of the things we might not agree with.

If we had more love, we would stop squabbling about creation vs evolution, whether it's a sin to use contraception, and paintings of heads of state with their genitalia exposed. Instead, we would throw our weight behind the (peaceful) fight for justice and righteousness for ALL. Love would compel us to speak out against injustice - not to call people names or throw insults around, but to take a compassionate stand for the rights and dignity of all humankind.


As for love for our broken country, someone much wiser than me once said that true love endures all things.

I believe in love. I believe that it is the only thing that can truly change the world for the better. It might take decades, even centuries, but just like other activists believe against all odds that they can convert people to their cause, we must never stop trying to win people over for love.

If any good can come out of the Lonmin tragedy, let it be this: my (and maybe even your?) crusade for more love in our country starts today.

May the men who lost their lives in Marikana rest in peace. May their loved ones be comforted.

OSS

There are some parts of your personality that you outgrow. Then there are other parts that the universe keeps reaffirming. For me it is the simple, eternal truth that I am not cool.

Let me come clean about my heinous crimes against my youth: I was the biggest geek in high school. Unlike the cool girls, I made sure that my school pinafore was no shorter than the required 4 fingers width above my knee. I wore my hair slicked back in the neatest pony tail ever. My teachers loved me and I loved them. And sin of all sins, I actually enjoyed school. Loved it, to be honest.

My social life also speaks volumes about the absence of the cool factor in my genes. It is a rare privilege to see me drunk, and I’ve never smoked so much as a cigarette in my life; not because of a moral objection, but because I'm not a fan of eau de ashtray.

I’m not awfully fond of the club scene, and much prefer an evening at home with my best friends and a bottle of wine. When I do go out at night, it will most likely be for dinner at a nice restaurant or to the cinema.

In my spare time I enjoy the geriatric delicacies of poetry, trivia games, foreign films and classical music. Right now my car’s radio is actually tuned to Fine Music Radio - not a popular choice among my generation, but I love it.

So you see, not cool. Not even a little bit.

As a teenager and student, I was quite content with myself for the most part, but ever so often I would make a truly pathetic attempt to be cool. I could go into details, but then I would lose the last glimmer of street cred I might have left. Let’s just say that one day I finally admitted defeat and accepted the fact that I am an old soul.

Unfortunately, Old Soul Syndrome is completely incurable, and all you can do is learn to live with it. Thankfully, OSS is pretty easy to live with once you embrace it. The biggest mental hurdle to get over is confusing OSS with actually being old. People who do not understand OSS can be very insensitive and see it as a symptom of someone “being old before her time”. 

The truth is we old souls have as youthful an enthusiasm for life as any other young person. We just have different ways of enjoying the lives that have been given to us. When talking to our friends, we don’t want to yell over ear-melting music. When dancing, we’d much rather dance around in our living rooms to a song we chose, than to rub up against a sweaty stranger in a club. We like our wine, and we even like having too much of it upon occasion, but only among good friends who will put us to bed, and certainly not when we need to drive somewhere. We like the same popular music, books and films as other young people, but we refuse to give up Bach, Eliot and musicals simply because it’s not cool.

No, old souls are not withered souls. Cautious? Maybe. Conservative? I guess from a certain point of view. But old? Never. I would even venture a guess that you’ll find more optimism, passion and joie de vivre in the heart of an old soul than in most.

Then there’s another hurdle for old souls to overcome: the “supposed to” hurdle. I remember lying in my bed at university res, listening to the other girls coming back in at 3am. After shouting at them through the window to be quiet, I would lie awake until dawn, wondering...am I not supposed to be out until 3am, too? Is that not what 20 year olds are supposed to want to do? Should I not also care more about makeup and clothes, and should I not also want to drink and smoke and experiment? Is that not what you’re supposed to do in your 20’s?

Then, one night, I suddenly realised: there is absolutely nothing in this life that I have to do, except to be happy and bring happiness to others.

A fundamental change happened. No, I didn’t become the cool kid who didn’t care what anyone else thought of her. Let’s face it. We all care a little about what others think. What changed was my perception of what it was to be young and to “have a life”. Youth simply means opportunity, and belongs to those who grab it. And having a life simply means having joy and gratitude.

As for that little word, “cool”, what does it mean anyway? Who decides, and frankly, who the hell cares?

Not me. Not anymore. I like being an old soul. It might not be cool, but it feels great.

Place

I’m going to try and write this without sounding like a brochure.

There’s this place that I consider my place and that I consider myself belonging to. It's such a lovely place, that thousands of people have shared my sense of belonging over the years. It has so many stigmas attached to it and is often surrounded by controversy, but to me it is simply my favourite place in the whole world.

Stellenbosch.

There are so many reasons why I love this town. I love how the green oak trees seem to envelop you in the summer. I love how, when it rains, everything seems illuminated. I love the vast selection of coffee shops, where the waiters don’t hate you for ordering drinks only. I love the surreal blue backdrop of mountains, with endless neat rows of vineyards creeping over the hills.

I love Dorp Street, Victoria Street, the Botanical Gardens, Café Creme, The Birdcage gift store, Stellenbosch Moedergemeente church, Jonkershoek, the tiny Exclusive Books store in Andringa Street, The Apprentice restaurant, Eikestad Mall’s Ster-Kinekor, Aandklas, The Brazen Head, Hillcrest Berry Farm, The Deli-cat-essen restaurant at Tokara Wine Estate, my parent’s house in Bosman Street, the Arcade Fire-like feeling I get when I drive by the school I went to, my student res or an old friend’s house where we used to hang out.

Having lived outside Stellenbosch for four years now, I’m starting to feel like an unfaithful wife who has abandoned her one true love. As is the case with most twenty-something Stellenbosch locals, my world started to feel awfully small. I said earlier that Stellenbosch belongs to me. That’s because Stellenbosch let’s you own him. He lets you in completely, sharing every nook and cranny, every interesting shop, every new restaurant, every walking trail, every street, and every dirty secret.

The problem is that after a while, you get tired of having nothing left to discover. So, bored housewife that I was, I ran off to an exciting new lover - Cape Town.

The Joburgers are probably rolling their eyes at this point. As one of my lecturers eloquently remarked, “Cape Town is a town in love with the idea of a city.” Fair enough. Let’s call Cape Town a town, then. It doesn't change the fact that it’s a damn exciting place to live. Life in this tiny coastal metropolis is large, colourful and never, ever boring. There’s always one more place you haven’t been to or one more shortcut you never knew you could take home. The people are a diverse bunch of hipsters, yuppies, creatives, executives and bums that challenge your world view on a daily basis, even if a lot of them leave you shaking your head in annoyance.

Much as I love Cape Town, though, I cannot claim ownership. Yes, I do call myself a Cape Tonian now, but it is not my city. I know this because of the way I feel every time I return to that other town that has always taken me back with open arms. As soon as I pass the Durbanville turnoff on the N1, and see Simonsberg, Botmanskop, the Pieke and Stellenbosch Mountain in the distance, the fog clears from my fatigued mind, and I start to feel calmness spread through my body. And as soon as I turn right at the Klipheuwel/Stellenbosch turnoff and the road becomes lined with vineyards and my beloved mountains (like spectators at a bicycle race cheering me on through the last stretch) I know, I realise it utterly and completely:

I am home.

Travellers well worth their salt might not agree with this sentiment, but after a few travels of my own, and despite loving discovering new places, my sincere love for Stellenbosch has lead me to believe that each of us has only one place we can truly call home. I say this while living a blissfully happy life 40 minutes away from the place I call home.

Because home isn't necessarily where you’re happiest, or where your things or even your people are. It is – as the old cliché goes – where your heart is. And even though I love nothing quite as much as travelling, my heart is definitely a home body.

My heart lives in Stellenbosch.

I can imagine that some who read this might feel sad for me, but don’t worry. I’m quite good at burrowing and chiselling out a lovely living space for myself wherever I go. I am always happy just to have my own beautiful space, be with people I love and explore new places.

I’m also happy to know that if life gets too hectic and I need to remember who I am, I can always, always go home.My heart will be waiting there with all the answers I already have.

I leave you with this poem by a fellow Stellenboscher, Philip Nel:

Oor akkerdrome rys
geklimde berge
waar my spore tussen fynbos lê
waarna ek my lewe lank verlang
seun
wat wou uitwyk
ver weg
om sy moeilike lekker jare
met iets beters te vervang
nou kruip my oudste eikewortels
onkeerbaar terug 
na fietse sonder modderskerms
donker winteroggende
met dae lange motreën
en dan
op ’n windstil dag
trek die Pieke oop
teen helder blou
vergewende vergetende nostalgie
die witste witste sneeu

Above oak dreams rise

climbed mountains

where my footprints lie among fynbos

that I long for all my life

son

who wanted to go

far away

to replace his difficult fun years

with something better

now my oldest oak roots

inevitably creep back

to bicycles without mud guards

dark winter mornings

with endless days of drizzle

and then

on a windless day

the Pieke appear

against bright blue

forgiving forgetting nostalgia

the whitest whitest snow

Thought for food

Hello.

My name is Suzanne. And I am a food addict.

I can hardly remember when it started. My life’s always been a haze of culinary delights: braai chops, Ouma Susanne’s bobotie and steamed chocolate pudding, my mum’s Charmoula fish with Pad Thai noodles, my dad’s lasagne potjie, strawberry ice cream with fudge crumble from Marcel’s, cupcakes, salmon fashion sandwiches, the Eastern Food Bazaar, Ben’s Cookies...I could fill up a whole blog post, just naming delicious things.

I don’t think I’m an emotional eater. Maybe I am, but I’m just so invested in everything I eat, that I probably don’t even notice eating more when I feel down. So the possible monthly PMS pig-out is just scrumptious business as usual for me. Hence identifying myself as a full-blown food addict. I’m constantly looking for, cooking, baking or thinking about delicious things to eat. And heaven help me, I ALWAYS want more.

Although I worry sometimes that the word “obsessed” applies to me, I've decided to embrace my food addiction, especially since I’m more inclined towards healthy, home-cooked meals (my constantly nagging sweet tooth aside). My habit of pondering my next meal does not (always) stem from a panicky feeling that if I don’t chew on something right now, the world will explode. Instead, the question, “What’s for dinner?” fills my mind with bright, powdery colours, savoury smells and a lovely, still calmness.

Once I’m in my kitchen, I become the conductor of all these colours, smells and flavours in my mind. With the ingredients laid out in front of me, I’m suddenly in control. No more meeting the demands of others. No more fear of screwing up, or not doing my job well enough. Something truly wonderful is about to happen. In about an hour’s time, I will emerge from my kitchen-fort with a dish worth writing home about. I just know this. And nothing or no-one is going to interfere.

(You can see why cooking is just as addictive as eating.)

I much prefer cooking to baking. Baking is fun and always makes me feel like a kid again, except that now if I want brownies I don't have to ask for permission to get flour all over the kitchen counter. And if I feel like brownies at 10pm, that’s okay, too. My kitchen. My rules. It’s just that baking is a science, and well, I’m not that good at science (or math). My brownies, delicious as they are, always stick to the pan, and my cakes and cupcakes always fall flat.

Cooking, on the other hand, allows for as much freedom of expression as art does. In a world where so much can go wrong (at work, on the road, in relationships), there’s very little that can go wrong with cooking. You don’t even really have to know which flavours go together. You just have to know which flavours you like.

My high school drama teacher once said if you can talk properly, you can sing. I say if you know how to chop an onion without losing a finger, you can cook.

Cooking gives me an immense sense that, although all is not well in the world right now, it will be some day. It’s a sensation that feels strangely true, if only for an hour or so. It all seems so simple: just put everything together and enjoy.

The best part, however, remains eating what you've created. Let me be so boastful as to say that very few regrettable dishes have come out of my oven. The only regret I have is that there is only one first bite on every plate. There is only one moment, between smelling and tasting, where you’re not quite sure what to expect. There is only one moment where that first bite hits your tongue and your mouth runs over with new flavours and the ever-present disbelief that I made that.

Every meal is of course followed by a treat. This is the one part of my food addiction that slightly worries me. I’m pretty sure that if you had something chocolatey enough on you, you could swindle me out of my car keys. I’ll show you where I parked and everything.

(It suddenly dawned on me that Switzerland might be a very dangerous place to visit.)

I don’t understand the handful of people I know, who are “just not into” chocolate. For goodness sake, Theobroma, the Greek word for cocao tree, literally means “food of the gods”, and you’re just flat-out not into it? I appreciate having these people with all their uneaten chocolate in my life (more for me), but I will always remain slightly suspicious of them.

“Not into chocolate.” Seriously.

It’s not just chocolate that threatens my blood sugar levels. The world is riddled with bakeries and pastry shops, selling fresh, warm cookies with gooey centres, pretty cupcakes with sweet, buttery icing, almond croissants, baked cheesecakes with crumbly crusts and dark chocolate cakes with creamy ganache filling.

That’s five great reasons to love life, right there. And it’s only a small sample.

Forget the more decadent things for a second. Sometimes, the most satisfying meal is the simplest of meals. I adore a slice of fresh, warm bread lathered with butter, or a bowl of Milo cereal after endless mornings of nothing but All-Bran. I love baked beans on toast, and one of my favourite post-lunch treats is a spoonful of peanut butter.

I think it’s because every little bite we consume contains a reminder from the Head Chef of it all that life is meant to be enjoyed. So grab a spoon, a fork, a knife. Better yet, eat with your hands and get it all over your face. Cook. Bake. Eat. Live.

Yes, I am a food addict.

I pity anyone who is not.

I heart pretty

I am not a shallow person. I do not, for example, support the notion that you have to be thin to be beautiful, and I would never be so stupid as to fork out R500 for a golf tee, just because there’s a crocodile on the label.

But I do find great joy in things being beautiful, and it makes me sad when people seem to show no interest in making things beautiful.

Yes, absolutely everyone has a favourite book, film, song, meal or place. I doubt whether there is a single person on Earth who is incapable of appreciating something truly breathtaking. However, much as beauty moves us, so many of us seem to choose pure, mundane functionality over beauty on a daily basis. After all, we’re busy people. And if we’re not busy, we’re tired. So why waste time on making an outfit, an interior or an event special, when it will do as is?

Because you can, that’s why. And if you have the choice to do something beautifully, why wouldn't you? If you have the ability to make something extraordinary, why would you settle for it being ordinary? Why just enjoy beauty, or save it for special occasions, when you can create it every day?

Think about it: we can’t all be artists in the traditional sense. I can’t draw or make music, or dance very well (Come to think of it, neither can a lot of people who are considered artists nowadays). But I can live in beauty. I can immerse myself in it body, heart and soul.

It’s so simple, really. It’s picking out the right earrings to go with your dress. It’s lighting a few candles for a lovely, quiet evening at home. It’s topping off your meal with a little garnish. It’s taking 5 minutes out of your time to put away those cardboard boxes that have been crowding your living room ever since you moved in (Yes Harri and Joe, this is in reference to you, insert smiley winky face here).

It’s adding just a little bit of flair to everything you touch.

The greatest thing about being a creator of beauty, is that you need very little to work with. It’s not about going to the mall and buying something nicer. It’s taking something you already have and turning it into something gorgeous. Trust me, if you’re willing to spend a little more time, you can throw a very special dinner party with nothing but paper plates, Styrofoam cups and those chequered paper napkins everyone seems to love so much.

And when you do go to the mall again, perhaps have a look at some of the other, prettier napkins.

Am I being pretentious? Well, that’s just the way it’s going to have to be, then. I refuse to live in a world where looking my best and good food and gorgeous interiors and candlelight and bubble baths and flowers are all reserved for special occasions.

Life is a special occasion, and it deserves to be lived beautifully.

If you do find yourself being too busy or feeling too tired to bother with something that seems so pointless, try to imagine living in a world without beautiful things. Then you’ll probably agree with The Little Prince that

“It’s useful, because it’s beautiful.”

Enough.

Epicurus once said that “one is rich not through one’s possessions, but through that which one can, with dignity, do without.” Honestly, I have no idea who Epicurus was, but it sounds to me like he was a pretty smart guy. So ever since I found this quote in my Christmas cracker, I've tried to live by his words.

An interesting experiment in a world driven by consumerism.

Let me be the first to point a finger at myself. I love getting pretty, shiny, new things as much as the next person. In case you haven’t heard the good news, retail therapy is a real thing. Nothing takes the sting out of a bad day like a massive shopping trip that leaves you with sore feet, enough plastic bags to line your bin with for a month, and the eventual buyer’s remorse.

On top of that, I work in advertising, which is basically consumerism spelled backwards (gnisitrevda is Satanic for consumerism). And after a few months of moral hoo-ha, I’ve come to the slightly disturbing conclusion that it is a world that I love being a part of. At least for now.

So you see, I’m not writing this post from a moral high horse, rather from the very heart of consumerist culture. It’s not that I’m living outside it; I've just become very aware of it. Not just because of the nature of my profession, but because I've recently fallen far behind in the race with the Joneses.

And the only way you can get a really good look at them, is from behind.

No-one has ever met the Joneses. You see, just as you think you’re catching up with them, they drive off in a car that’s just a little bit flashier than yours. They never invite you to their house, because when they’re not remodelling the kitchen or installing a bigger walk-in closet, they’re moving to an even more exclusive estate. And when you do happen to attend the same soiree as them, you never get to shake their hands. Unlike the rest of us, the Joneses don’t climb the social ladder. They just ride the elevator straight to the top, which makes moving in the same circles as them pretty hard.

Yet the greater part of the world’s population seem to spend most of their time chasing the elusive Joneses. They’re the ideal towards which we all strive. They’re what all of us want to be. It’s such a common, deep-seated need that the pursuit of wealth and status has become (if you ask me) the noblest of pursuits in modern society. If you don’t want to be like the Joneses, you've got your priorities all wrong, kid.

I guess it’s not a bad thing. Ambition is good, not just for the individual, but for society and the economy and all that stuff that rational people always bring up during this conversation.

But here’s my problem with the Joneses: I’m actually satisfied with my shabby, make-it-up-as-I-go-along, patched up life. Or at least, I would've been if the Joneses didn’t exist. I seriously don’t have a problem with most of my clothes coming from Mr Price and sale racks, until I see Mrs Jones in the window of some or other boutique, winking at me with a sly smile. I’m happy to bide my time in the slow lane with a job I enjoy, making do with what I earn and waiting for my ship to come in, until the young Joneses - the sons and daughters of fortune - start buying houses and upgrading their iPads.

Every time I have a moment of clarity, when I realise that I’m doing okay and I can honestly say that I am happy, I see them in the distance, smirking over their shoulders.

“No you’re not.”

“Is that it, then?” I always shout back defiantly, “Is a perpetual state of dissatisfaction the only way to be successful in life, to be respected, to be looked up to, to pay your mortgage, to put your kids through university?”

This is currently the most open-ended question in my life. Or no, I know the answer. I think we all know what the truth is about consumerist culture. But let’s face it, living outside it is a scary, scary prospect. Maybe that’s not even what we’re meant to do. Maybe we’re just meant to pause once in a while, and realise that what we have is

Enough.

And while we’re catching our breath and taking a moment to be grateful, it might just dawn on us that the Joneses are all in our heads. Finally, we might smell what you’d expect to smell in the middle of a rat race:

A rat.

And that’s a smell no amount of designer perfume can cover up.

An incomplete history

A few nights ago I watched The Concert, one of those lovely European films that are simultaneously heart-wrenching and uplifting. There is this beautiful scene (and here I’ll try not to give the plot away) of a political prisoner in Siberia. A former concert violinist, she escapes from her harsh reality by playing Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto on a make-believe violin, over and over again, until the other prisoners label her “the mad woman”.

That scene got me thinking about the constant presence of music in my life, and what it means to me. Warning: this is not the shortest piece of writing, nor the most coherent. I simply feel compelled to write some of these thoughts down.

My very first concrete memory is of me as a three-year-old dancing around in our kitchen to the sounds of BZN – one of those European pop acts that made it big in South Africa. It wasn't the most profound music on earth, and I most certainly don’t listen to it anymore (or at least, I’ll never admit to still listening to it).

But it is the first music I remember hearing.

And it is the first music I remember loving.

It was track 1.

BZN signalled the start of my life’s score. It was a happy, unpretentious start. It was me dancing and singing along to carefree ditties about love, love and more love. I could barely speak English at the age of three, but I swear I knew almost every word to every song - miraculous knowledge, born out of pure and simple love for what I was hearing.

BZN’s follow-up act is a living legend. Her name is Laurika Rauch, and she taught me to sing in my own language. The simplistic honesty of her songs (mostly written by her husband, the irreplaceable Christopher Torr), along with her warm alto voice is the sound of countless family road trips. It’s the ultimate driving music, because no-one tells a story like Laurika Rauch. I could never be bored with the tales of Donkerman, Mannetjies Roux and Jakob F. de Beer filling my head. To this day, whenever I find myself in the backseat of someone else’s car, my favourite thing to do is to sing her songs, softly to myself, always with a nostalgic lump in my throat.

My first meeting with classical music came at the age of five. I discovered Johann Strauss’ Blue Danube in my parents’ record collection, and found it the perfect music to “practice” ballet to. Dressed in my brand-new pink leotard and slippers, I performed to the vast audience in my mind, skipping and pirouetting, waving my arms in a swanlike manner (just like Anna Pavlova in a movie I saw on television once).

For the next three to four years, any description I gave of myself, or of what I wanted to be some day, included the word “ballerina”. All because of Strauss. And all because of Strauss I went into life wide open to other classical masters, like Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninov, Mozart, Vivaldi, and of course, Bach. A world without his cello suites would not be worth living in.

At the age of five, though, there was still only Strauss and wanting to be a ballerina. Of course, thanks to Walt Disney, the occupation of an adventure-starved princess was always at the back of my mind. I just watched Aladdin again last weekend, and no, I still don’t think “A whole new world” is corny. On the contrary, the lyrics always pull my heart out of its complacency with life as it is. It makes me want to be someone amazing, and it makes me want to do amazing things.

It makes me want to go on a magic carpet ride.

I could wax lyrical about Disney songs all day, but let’s move along swiftly.

At the age of seven I discovered musicals. CD’s had finally made it into the ordinary South African household, and the very first CD my parents bought was Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Premiere Collection. I could write a chapter about every single track on that album, and back then I couldn't possibly pick a favourite among such a diverse collection of songs. Only years later, when my mum made me watch the brilliant film adaptation of Evita, did I discover my favourite musical. Goosebumps. Every time.

Now I’m just going to brush over the atrocities of “The Macarena” and Whigfield’s “Sexy eyes”, as well as a prolonged and very embarrassing obsession with Hanson, the Spice Girls and Britney Spears.

Good. Glad we got that out of the way.

On 9 December 1999, I heard the song that changed the way I listened to music forever. I was at a slumber party, and 5FM was playing softly in the background. We had stayed up all night, and the sun was just stretching its legs through the curtains, when my heart stopped at the sound of Live’s “Run to the Water”.

It wasn't the most beautiful, nor the most powerful song I would ever hear, but it led in one of the greatest parts of my life’s soundtrack: the rock years. I started listening to bands like Live, Collective Soul, U2, The Eels, Coldplay, Pearl Jam, REM, the lesser-known K’s Choice, and Counting Crows. The latter was very special to my friends and me. Adam Duritz introduced me to the idea of lyrics as poetry, and they were the first band that I saw live. I hardly ever listen to Counting Crows nowadays, but when I do, it feels like an old friend just walked in through my front door, bringing with him all that was best of my teenage years.

During the rock years, somewhere between 15 and 16, I also went through a bit of a retro folky phase where I mainly listened to Tracy Chapman, Simon & Garfunkel and Leonard Cohen. My fascination with Tracy came and went, while Simon & Garfunkel is a love that will last a lifetime. As for Cohen, I am very grateful to report that I recently rediscovered him, thanks to my parents’ DVD of his 2009 performance at the O2 Arena in London. What a poet! “Anthem” will drive me to tears again and again, and “Suzanne” makes me love my name (even though I harbour no delusions that the song is actually about me). But the moment of all moments during that concert is the Webb sisters’ rendition of “If it be your will”. I wish I could describe it, but I’ll just end up being melodramatic.

Buy the DVD. Watch it.

Then there was Creed. Now, I can only imagine how many eyes will be rolling over this most commercial of commercial rock bands, but say what you want, no-one plays guitar like Mark Tremonti. No-one. Besides, a mutual love of Creed was, at the age of 16, the first thing I shared with my fiancé. And Weathered was the very first gift he gave me.

I think I feel about Tremonti’s face melting solo’s the way today’s schoolgirls feel about that Bruno Mars song.

Of course, an account of the rock years would be incomplete if I didn't mention the late, great Leeway, a garage band which consisted of my fiancé and four of our best friends. Sadly, Leeway never made it as big as they should’ve, but I had so much appreciation for how dedicated these five people were to their music, to producing something truly special. They introduced me to the more intricate side of music and gave me the quintessential teenage experience of being a groupie. I still miss band practice Saturdays and the gigs at Bohemia. 

Those, as they say, were the good old days.

The rock years were a time of severe musical snobism when I only deigned to roll my eyes at other genres and believed that performing with a backtrack was a crime against humanity. Then in 2007 Mika appeared on the scene, a strangely significant moment in my relationship with music. I didn't want to like Mika, but damnit, that “Grace Kelly” song was just so catchy! Suddenly it just felt silly to deny myself something that clearly made me want to strip off my pants and dance around in my underwear. Which I shamelessly did. Several times.

I don’t listen to Mika anymore (some music just comes and goes), but he definitely made me more open to other genres. I still mainly listen to rock, but I also like to get down to Jay-Z as much as the next white girl, and I love it when “Hello” by Martin Solveig comes on while I’m driving. I no longer need music to be significant or timeless in order to listen to it. I've let myself go, and now I listen to whatever I like.

I am now in the “post-snob” years where I've made the happy discovery that, if I am open to it, there will always be one more amazing act I haven’t heard yet. Some favourites that I’ve discovered over the last two to three years include Florence and the Machine, Biffy Clyro, Sweet Billy Pilgrim, aKing, The National, the sublime Arcade Fire (“Suburban War” is a masterpiece), Marina and the Diamonds, MGMT, Vampire Weekend, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Regina Spektor, Feist, Ingrid Michaelson, Stars, Radical Face and my latest crush, The Naked and Famous.

One last thing. I cannot post this piece without mentioning Muse, my favourite favourite band. In the words of a recent comment on Youtube, “If I could have sex with Matt Bellamy’s voice, I would.” Let’s just leave it at that.

Reading what I've written I feel foolish. I couldn't possibly cram every single song that has ever meant something to me, or made my memories more memorable, into one short piece of writing. Even if I wrote a book on the subject, it would still remain an incomplete history.

All I know is music is the first thing I remember.

And I’m pretty sure it will be the last.