An eerie feeling has been haunting me for months, persistent in nature and nestled somewhere deep in my subconscious. Every attempt to pin this feeling down precisely, to describe it, has so far failed. It has remained a vague approximation.
One of these approximations leads to the question: Where is my enthusiasm?
Some memories are as clear as if they were only moments old. Like the first physical CD, I was sent as a sample lying on the dining table at home. How a thin-lipped woman complains about my aunt singing along to Bob Dylan at the top of her voice and dancing exuberantly. The unbridled nervousness just before Paul McCartney called for an interview.
It’s probably an age thing: the longer you go through life, the rarer the first times become.
But when it comes to culture and music, things should be different. Hearing an artist for the first time, seeing them perform on stage. It happens again and again. But where is my enthusiasm?
